The Darcys of Pemberley: The Darcy Inheritance
by StellaMoone
Summary: Fitzwilliam Darcy inherits the vast Darcy estates and the care of his sister Georgiana at the age of twenty-five. Now he must find a wife, have a son and ensure the cycle continues. Nearly a hundred years later, his descendant Millicent Darcy must fight to keep the family fortune and Pemberley itself in Darcy hands. Sequel to 'Becoming Lady Darcy'.
1. 1788

"One day," he said to his friend, as they climbed up the hill, "all of this will be mine."

"All of it?" The boy said, a voice filled with wonder as they reached the highest point on the estate.

"Yes. All of it."

The boys sat in front of the Cage, the ancient hunting lodge that could be seen for miles. Fitzwilliam pulled out a handkerchief, broke the soft piece of seed cake in half and passed one part to his companion. They were two sides of the same coin, Fitz Darcy and Georgie Wickham; people often mistook them for brothers, one a little shorter and more serious, the other with a playful smile that whipped across his face and charm that took the seed cake right out of Mrs Reynolds' hands.

"You will stay with me here at Pemberley, won't you? You could be my steward like your papa is to mine."

George puffed up his chest a little, "do you think I would make a good steward?"

"The finest," he said, adjusting George's hat. "We will be the talk of London, Wickham. I know we will!"

The younger boy looked up at the older one, "will we always be friends, Darcy?"

"Of course. Why, you are a brother to me."

The two boys sat there looking out onto the peaks, the stillness of the summer afternoon interrupted by a shrill shout from inside the Cage, and they looked at each other quickly with smiles on their faces before running off back down the hill and into the house.


	2. 1807

Georgiana stomped down the bright gallery as heavy-footed as her pumps would allow, the shimmering glass display cases rattled as the floorboards underfoot shuddered under her fury.

"GEORGIANA!"

Her brother was shouting at her from the drawing room, marching along the corridor behind her, she could hear the clomp of his riding boots.

"I will not go, Fitzwilliam, you cannot make me!"

"Georgiana, please stop and listen!"

She stopped suddenly underneath the portrait of Margaret of Woodbury, the long dead ancestor whose oil-painted perfection was displayed underneath the stairs, and turned to see the anguished red face of her brother. He had decided that she should spend the season in the company of their aunts, switching between Waddingham, Rosings and Belgravia, rather than spending the entire summer with him at Pemberley.

"Alright, brother. I will listen to you, but do not expect me to acquiesce," she folded her arms in protest against him, "for I shall not."

Darcy could feel his heart pounding away in his chest, "please."

"You stand there and shout at me, and now you say 'please'? Forshame, Fitzwilliam, sending me away to stay with Aunt Catherine and Aunt Mary, and a whole host of people I barely know so that you can disappear off to town with Mr Bingley, dancing and drinking and doing who knows what."

"That is not why -"

"Of course, it is. You're packing me off like an unwanted burden so that you can have fun, and I am left in the countryside to rot! Papa would never have let this happen."

"Papa would have wanted you to spend time with family, to meet your cousins."

"Do not say that, Fitzwilliam. Papa would let me do what I wanted!"

There was no doubt that Georgiana Darcy had been their father's favourite, looking as she did so much like their mother. He had adored her and spoiled her but had also insisted that she receive the education of a gentleman. Fitzwilliam wondered what kind of man would ever be good enough for his clever, sharp, sister, even as she stood before him shaking with anger and grief. She was slight girl of thirteen years, with the same dark grey eyes as his own and a cascade of the same brown curls pinned up and laced with ribbons. He took her by the hand and led her to the settee tucked under the staircase.

"This isn't my decision alone."

"Maybe not, brother," she sniffed, "but I feel that perhaps you did not fight hard enough."

"I did, my sweet love," he sat next to her, tucked her under his arm, "I promise you."

"But then we can stay here for the summer, there is no rule to say that we cannot."

Darcy wished it were the case, but he was not the only guardian assigned to the welfare of his sister. He had travelled to the home of his Aunt and Uncle Fitzwilliam, the grand and imposing estate of Waddingham, family seat of the Earls of Matlock, and been ambushed by a collection of relatives who demanded to know his intentions for his sister. Aunt Catherine, of course, had the loudest and most damning voice and was of the firm belief that Georgiana should be sent away until she was of marriageable age, whilst Uncle Fitzwilliam, his mother's brother, wanted the child brought to Wakefield to reside with his own family and increase his menagerie of daughters, and his own coffers as Georgiana's substantial allowance would transfer to him for safekeeping. It was only his cousin Richard, with whom Darcy shared the guardianship, who believed that the youngest Darcy would benefit from remaining in the care of her brother. Fitzwilliam had looked over at his cousin, happy to have an ally in an enemy camp and, after hefty discussions and disagreements, it had been decided that Georgiana would remain with Fitzwilliam, but spend the season with her Aunts.

"There is no rule, but we have to show willing. Aunt Catherine is eager for you to perform for her ever since I advised her of your skill at the pianoforte," he was trying to persuade her. "Besides which I will be just as miserable as you, I would much rather spend my time at Pemberley than at plays and recitals meeting dull women and their odious mothers."

Georgiana looked up at him, "are you planning to wed, Fitz? You always told me that a single man in possession of a large fortune had no need of a wife and that you would never marry, that the idea of marriage made you feel nauseous."

"And it still does," he grinned at her, "but unfortunately a house like this needs a mistress."

"I can be the mistress of Pemberley, I think I will be perfectly wonderful at choosing a dinner menu, or making irrational demands of the servants."

"Is that how you think a mistress should behave, being rude to the servants?"

"Of course not, but that's how Miss Bingley behaved when she last visited. It was perfectly odious."

"So, you do not wish me to marry Miss Bingley?"

Georgiana scrunched her face up and shook her head, "most decidedly not! Neither of the Bingley girls are good enough for you, and if you must marry then I will help you decide, for the future mistress of Pemberley will be my sister, and I must be able to tolerate her to some degree."

"I must say, sister, that I never realised that you felt so strongly about Caroline Bingley. You are all delights and smiles when she visits."

"I am very good at pretending, brother. But when you meet a young lady who is deserving of you, then I will all true delight and wonderment, for I wish nothing more than for you to be happy."

"You know that going to Kent and Yorkshire for the summer would make me happy."

"I understand the obligations of my position, Fitz. I am not a fool."

Darcy felt now that his sister would be happy to consent, despite her early protestations. For all of her outrage and anger, Georgiana Darcy knew the role she was expected to play and she played it most agreeably for the most part, which was lucky as for all of his shouts and demands, Fitzwilliam Darcy knew that he would be completely unable to force his sister to do anything she did not want to.

"Only sometimes," he said with a smile, pulling her to her feet, "now how about a race around the park before tea? I shall call to Peter to get the phaeton ready."

"Oh," she said, excitedly, "I love the phaeton! Will you teach me to drive it myself?"

"Only if you promise not to seize Aunt Catherine's barouche and escape back to Derbyshire as soon as you are in Kent."

Georgiana grinned, "papa always told me not make promises that I could not keep!"

She ran off towards her rooms, calling out to her maid for a bonnet and gloves as she did so.

Fitzwilliam smiled. The house was a hive of activity today, and he was looking forward to getting out into the park, loosening his cravat and feeling the Derbyshire air in his lungs. This had been one of the worst years of his life so far. He was now the master of the vast Darcy estates, but there was a great and unsurmountable cost. The night they put his father into the marble mausoleum he had found himself howling with grief, but it was not only for George Darcy, who was a veritable paragon of virtue and duty. No, it was for himself, because the older he had got, the more the Darcy inheritance had felt like a noose around his neck, looming over him like an impending death sentence, because now all of his own personal hopes, dream and wishes had vanished into the ether.

The Darcy fortune was built through years of mutually beneficial marriages with distant relatives, land grabbing betrothals to the less than willing daughters of land-owners, strategic dalliances with heiresses and the continual push to produce healthy sons to inherit it all. It was his duty now to find a suitable girl, marry her and have a boy so that the cycle could continue.

"Come on, Fitzwilliam!" He heard the shout of Georgiana from the entrance hall, her voice edged with impatience.

He stood and looked around at the home he had lived in all of his life. It felt different now, somehow more like a responsibility than a burden. He would be alright, he thought. They would both be alright, because they had Pemberley and each other.

"FITZWILLIAM!"

Smiling, he took his hat and gloves from Staughton, ran down the steps, and took his sister by the hand as they both disappeared into the courtyard.


	3. 1899 - Millicent

Millicent Darcy often found that she was reprimanded for things that were not necessarily her fault, and whilst she would take the punishment – be it a lack of supper, or a removal of her music box – with good humour, it aggrieved her greatly. More often than not, the ones responsible were her brothers, George and Bertie, who had recently been returned from school for the Christmas holidays and found it most amusing to tease and annoy their younger sister. Nanny Hilde, brushing her hair with force one Wednesday morning before music lessons, said that a young lady must always rise above such tomfoolery, but Millicent preferred the less ladylike act of revenge. It had been the youngest Darcy who had placed George's skittles on the gallery floor, causing the scullery maid to drop two chamberpots on Mama's new Abyssinian carpet; and she was also responsible for placing ham in the pockets of Papa's waistcoat, resulting in Padget, their bumbling Labrador, to jump up and sniff and growl throughout breakfast. But, of course, this was deemed to be the work of Albert, who had committed a similar crime the following year. As the boys were sent to their rooms without supper for the third night running, Millicent giggled to herself in her hiding spot on the Long Gallery. That would teach them to mess with her. Fools. Usually the long gallery was a place of quiet and hiding, but tonight Mama and Papa were entertaining families from the neighbouring estates before the arrival of family guests for Christmas. Millicent took up her favourite place in the window seat overlooking the lake, wrapping herself up in a blanket as the wind whipped over the peaks and the room chattered and chunnered with the goings-on of servants preparing for the evening.

It was much later, when the gas lamps were lit and her tummy was rumbling that she even thought about food, she had been reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which grandmama had bought for her. The book was weird and wonderful, and she wasn't entirely convinced that she enjoyed it, although it did make her wish her name was Alice and that there was a rabbit hole she could disappear down sometimes.

"Your mama says you are to go to the saloon now and say goodnight," Mrs Reynolds said, a harassed edge to her voice on this, the busiest of evenings, as she placed a stack of freshly pressed napkins on the long table that had been being slowly filled with cakes and treats and sugar-covered centerpieces all day.

"But Mrs Reynolds, it's only half past seven… and Lady Mabel hasn't arrived yet," she protested, scrambling to her feet, book in hand. Mrs Reynolds didn't even look down. "Mama said that I could meet her."

"Nanny Hilde will come through in a moment to take you to the nursery for supper."

"This is not fair," Millicent huffed, throwing her book to the floor and stomping off.

"Neither is your brothers both being chastised for your crime, is it now?"

Millicent turned quickly, her face the same shade as punch in the crystal bowl on the table.

"Do I have to go _now_?"

"Yes. Now. Be sharp about it," she snapped. "I have enough to do already without having to run about after you, Miss Millicent."

Mrs Reynolds nodded sharply and then waited as she rose to her feet, following her quickly down the length of the room and down the stairs. Mrs Reynolds could be very mean when she wanted to be.

The clock at the bottom of the grand staircase chimed midnight, ringing out its joyful chorus, echoing up to the top of the landing where Millicent was standing in her nightgown with a book in her hand, as she started edging along the floorboards to begin sneaking down the stairs. She knew that there was a ghost who lingered here, was thoroughly of the belief that she had see the White Lady of Pemberley one chilly winter night, gliding along the landing and falling over the bannister, and she had watched in wonderment. It was a night like this one, although without the festive decorations adorning the bannisters, or the smell of cinnamon and cloves seeping up from the kitchens below. If she could listen carefully, she could hear the laughter and music from the dining room, where her mama and papa and all of the guests were still enjoying the night before Christmas. Down below in the hallway there was a rustle of skirts, Millicent hid behind the bannister – one of the housemaids was about to climb the stairs with a stack of linens, but was distracted by a handsome footman in red and blue Darcy livery and disappeared onto the bright gallery with a giggle, the stack of linens discarded on the chair.

She stepped on each stair quietly, tip-toed underneath the picture of Augustus Gleave – a long dead park-keeper who had lived to the age of one hundred and four, and whose sullen face stood guard at the top of the stairs, darted past the ghostly image of the ill-fated Isabella Stratton, and hovered for a moment underneath the large painted portrait of Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man very much responsible for all of the good fortune still bestowed upon her family. Millicent twisted the door handle, carefully backed into the library expecting it to be dark, but instead finding it flickering with light. The room twinkled with adornment, the sap from the towering pine tree, dripping in decorations, causing it to be scented like an enchanted forest. In the corner, a small figure sat hunched over a book on the table, her face illuminated in concentration. The girl tried to quietly back out of the room, but the figure looked up and beckoned her closer. The floor was cold under her barefeet, and she wished that she had worn her slippers before descending downstairs. The hearth was still glowing softly, a gentle crackle and pop to it, she noted.

"Come in," the figure said, "close the door or you will let the heat out."

She walked over towards where an oil lamp burned with a hot, bright glow and where stiff, old pages were being turned softly by papery hands.

"You must be Lady Millicent Darcy," the woman said, observing the tiny Medusa stood barefoot in her nightgown.

"I am," she said defiantly, "but everyone calls me Penny."

"Penny… because you are a cent, is that right?"

Millicent nodded, her rag curls heavy in her hair, pulled into place by Nanny Hilde at the nursery window as she strained to see the guests arriving in their finery. The lady beckoned for her to sit next to her on the flocked velvet seat, and as she did, a soft blanket was placed over her knees.

"I know who you are too," Millicent said, as she looked up at dark eyes, the silver curls, and in hushed tones of reverence she whispered, dipping into a low curtsey, "I am glad to meet you, Lady Mabel."

The older woman chuckled, "I am glad to meet you too. Your Papa writes to me about you."

"He does?"

Millicent was surprised, the only person she thought Papa wrote to was Aunt Agatha, who lived in London for nearly all of the year, and was still not married, much to Granny Clementine's disgust.

"He _does_," she said, turning the page of her book.

The girl smiled at her and inched closer, there was something about this lady with a pince-nez balanced on her wrinkly walnut face that made her feel strangely comfortable.

"Is it true that you travelled to Egypt?"

"It is."

"And the Americas too?"

"There too."

"My mama is from America," Millicent leaned over, "what are you reading?"

Mabel closed the book to reveal the red cover with its gold embossed title stamped firmly into the leather.

'NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY IN EGYPT AND THE COUNTRY BEYOND THE CATARACTS'

"My father wrote this book before he met my mother, I just wanted to see it again for a final time."

"Why will you not see it again? Are you going to die?"

"Very soon I imagine, I am very old now."

"You look very old," the words blurted out of her before she could stop them, "I am sorry, that was very rude."

"It was honest, Millicent, I do look very old because I am very old. I appreciate your honesty, your mama and grandmama have done nothing but fuss over me since I arrived. I might be eighty three, but I am not an invalid."

Her attention was drawn back to the book, and she peered down onto the illustrated page, her finger underlining the words as the large sapphire that adorned it sparkled in the light. Mabel glanced over at the small girl who was watching her intently, she reminded her of Jane, her mother's sister, the same wheat coloured hair, the same large blue eyes. It was as if God had copied her down and redrawn another version in another time, and she found that she couldn't stop looking through her blurry old eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You ask a lot of questions for so small a person, Millicent Darcy."

"I do, I think it's the best way to know things."

"Well luckily, I wholeheartedly agree," she said with a smile, "would you like some cocoa?"

"I would!"

Mabel closed her book and shuffled from the seat, she looked around at the room. It had once been her secret sanctuary, her favourite place in the house – where she would play the harp for her mother, or stitch something delicate to amuse her father who was always overly impressed with her talent – and now it was someone else's home and here was another Lady Darcy learning the secrets of the big old house on the hill.

"Take my hand," she gestured, as they walked through the library and into the ante-room, in the dining room next door there was still the gentle chunner of voices and the clink of porcelain through the large oak door.

They sneaked past Mr Staughton, still dressed for attention but snoozing on chair, and down into the quieter bustle of the kitchen, where three maids were busy preparing loaves and muffins for the following morning. Mabel pulled out a pan and gestured for chocolate and milk, which were brought by a stumbling, stuttering girl called Kitty, she was a bit younger than Millicent, who eyed her with suspicion. There were so many people who lived at Pemberley and she never saw any of them properly, just the occasional foot, or a glimpse of a stiffened petticoat. She gave her a quick smile, found it was returned before the girl disappeared off up the stairs. Mabel stirred the pan slowly, humming a tune in her head that she had forgotten she remembered before handing the teacup to the small girl sitting at the table Millicent swung her legs under the kitchen table, slurping her cocoa in a decidedly unladylike manner.

Mabel took a seat at the large kitchen table, a place where she had so often sat in the small, dark hours of the night with her father. Drinking cocoa and eating seedcake, whilst talking about history and music and adventure. Fitzwilliam Darcy's only daughter knew that her travels and the books she had written were all inspired by him, that he had travelled the Aegean Sea, across the Baltics, across the Atlantic with her… The last time they had drank cocoa in the kitchens at Pemberley was when she was heavy with her first baby, the future Earl of Matlock kicking away in the womb as her father sang and laughed, excited for the months ahead. And it was here that she had sat with Staughton on that cold winter night when papa was lost for good, his pocket watch smooth in her hands. Pemberley would always be home for Mabel, but her family no longer lived here, instead her children and their children and their children's children were all at Waddingham, waiting for her to arrive at the estate and take her seat at the table as the Fitzwilliam matriarch. When did she get so old, she wondered, as she watched the young girl with rags in her hair tracing her finger over the grooves in the wood, life seemed so short, even to one who had lived so long.

"Are you staying for Christmas, Aunt?"

"Not this time, Penny, but I promise you that next year I will come and spend Christmas at Pemberley, for it is my most favourite place."

"Mine too," a yawn escaping from her lips, the tell-tale rubbing of the eyes, before she closed them and rested her head on her hands.

'Are you falling asleep?"

"I'm resting my eyes…"

Within a minute she was asleep, her head tucked up on her arm. Mabel rose to her feet and pulled the cape from her shoulders. The heavy damask with the fox fur trim had belonged to her mother, and she covered the sleeping girl with it, before beckoning to the loitering footman with the untucked waistcoat to return her to the nursery. She watched as the small girl was hoisted over the shoulder and gently carried up the backstairs. She sat there for a minute, comforted by the smell of home. Pemberley was always a constant, it hadn't changed in the sixty years since she had left it for Waddingham. Mabel wasn't sure if she would live long enough to return again, she hadn't planned to. Time had made her old bones weary and she was ready now, it was simply a case of getting her affairs in order. Grabbing a piece of seedcake from the tin on the table, Fitzwilliam's daughter pulled her father's book out from her pocket and started to read again, hearing the words as if spoken in his voice in the house he had made into a home.


	4. 1808 - January

"Fitz!"

Georgiana released her arm from that of her uncle and ran towards her brother who she had spotted immediately in the crowded room. He looked temporarily shocked as she bounded towards him, a mist of pink satin and blue ribbons, arms stretched, reaching out.

"Georgie!" He pulled her into his arms tightly, noticing at once her newly acquired height. "Look how tall you are now!"

"I am almost as tall as you are!"

"Well, not entirely, but you fit quite perfectly underneath my chin…" She edged herself back into his embrace again, "be careful, you will get pomade all over my new cravat! It took me an age to get Hughes to fasten it correctly."

He began to fuss with it again, as she led him by the hand and took him through the long gallery, and down the stairs where they sat on the settee hidden underneath the staircase, escaping the noise and fuss of people walking past in their party finery.

"Fitz, I have so much to tell you - "

"G, you have written to me practically every day for the last four months…why it almost felt as if it were I at Waddingham for the autumn."

"Maybe you should have visited and then I would not have needed to write so much!"

A grand lady with a feather in her hair walked past and harrumphed, before continuing on her way. The Darcy siblings eyed each other and smiled. The house was full of people this evening. Twelfth Night, the final celebration of the festive season always concluded with a magnificent party held at Pemberley, and Fitz had been prepped and slightly pressured by his formidable aunts to continue the tradition. Unlike usual balls, Georgiana and the other children of the family were allowed to attend, and the saloon was full of small boys and girls playing and dancing with their nursemaids.

"The house looks wonderful, Papa would be so proud of you."

"He would be proud of us," he said, taking her gloved hand in his own.

Darcy looked over at his sister, she was so grown now, on the strange cusp of adulthood, whilst still retaining her sense of childish excitement. When he was fourteen he was away at school, making friends and getting up to mischief, as well as learning how to be the master of an estate; Georgiana received her education at home from a succession of governesses, tutors and the occasional Italian soprano, who was certainly trying to catch his father's eye, but Darcy felt that maybe she needed to be more exposed to the world. The women in their sphere could be brutal, harsh and unforgiving – he had learned this during the last few months in town – and he was unsure how Georgiana, with her forthright opinions tempered with a kind, forgiving nature, would survive.

"I have a proposition for you, Georgie," he began, "nothing is finalised, and I will need to speak to Richard and the Aunts, but I am thinking that you need a companion now, rather than a governess."

"A companion? Like Mrs Bradshaw who travels with Helena Danvers from Marshmont?"

Darcy had no clue who these people were, but he recognised the name Danvers and the neighbouring estate of Marshmont, "I assume so."

Georgiana jumped to her feet, "Fitz, that is possibly the most excellent idea you have ever had."

"You think so? You would be happy for me to engage a companion for you?"

"Of course, you spoil me, brother," she said, holding him tightly in her arms. "I have missed you so much."

"I have missed you too," he said. Because he really had. It had been a lonely few months without the laughter of his sister, and the comfortable silences that they could share. He found that as Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, he was expected to always perform, even when he had neither the desire nor the inclination to do so, and it was exhausting.

"Did you find any suitable brides when you were in town?"

"None whatsoever…"

"Not even _Mrs Wharton_?"

Fitz eyed his sister curiously and in a quiet voice he said, "what know you of Mrs Wharton?"

Georgiana reached into her reticule with glee, as if she had been waiting for weeks to reveal what she knew, pulling out a piece of newspaper she moved closer to the candelabra, to see more clearly before reading out in a loud whisper.

"_The fashionable world will be surprised to hear that a very young, very rich landowning gentleman of northern persuasion, once resident in the far reaches of the near east, is about to attend the hymeneal altar with the blooming and beautiful widow of a lately deceased baronet. The lady in question, not quite twenty three years of age, is well known in society circles, for her attention to detail when it comes to entertainment is beyond reproach. But what is to become of us all if a young lady cannot make the slightest slip overnight without the circumstances appearing in print the next morning!_" Georgiana recited with glee, as her brother tried to grab the newspaper from her. "Are you going to marry her?"

"No, of course not," he said adamantly, "why would you think that?"

She brandished the paper, pointing at the headline, and he snatched it from her and began to read.

"Miss Darcy!" There was a shrill, piercing shriek from the gallery as Miss Caroline Bingley, her hair curled and primped, her nose firmly in the air, trotted over in her new dancing pumps, which squeaked softly on the newly waxed floorboards. "You have grown a great deal since I saw you last, dearest Georgiana."

Louisa Bingley stood three steps behind her sister, as she often did. Fitz looked over at her and she gestured for his company, they moved away from the overbearing conversation of Caroline who had quite literally trapped Georgiana in the corner.

"Fitzwilliam, Pemberley looks magnificent," she placed her hand on his arm, "you should be very proud of yourself."

"I am, Louisa," he said softly. "What news do you bring from the north?"

"Well, as you know, we were invited to dine with the Warners. Mrs Warner has taken a house in Gateshead where she introduced me to a gentleman with whom she anticipated a connection."

"Mrs Warner is trying to see you wed?"

"Mrs Warner had a plethora of sons and no daughters and finds her days most empty and free of amusement, no doubt I was there to provide that. She feels Caroline is too young for such sport."

Fitz looked over at the younger Bingley girl, who was giggling and laughing with his sister. Caroline was almost as tall as he himself; a brunette she had a darker colouring that she tried to hide with a cacophony of powders and lotions, and she had a long lean neck which she adorned with strings of jewels. She was a very beautiful, very clever girl, and at some point in the future he knew that she would make someone a wonderful wife. But despite Louisa's coaxing and Caroline's own insistence, it most certainly would not be him.

"Caroline does not need the assistance, I think," he reached over and ladled out the dark ruby punch into small silver cups. The room bustled and jostled as they were directed down into the ballroom, standing on the edge and watching the dancing.

"I would very much like to dance with you, Louisa."

She looked up from underneath the feathers on her turban. For all Caroline was tall and lean, Louisa was a head shorter, with red curls that flowed down her back, or hung delicately around her face as they did tonight. Her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen, and if he wasn't so sure that she would reject him, he would dance with her all night.

"Darling Fitz," she sighed with a smile, " we both know that would be a terrible idea. Why don't you find a young heiress with a considerable fortune to dance with…?"

"But that would be you…"

She rolled her eyes at him and sipped her punch, "you need to stop this, Fitz. Our friendship is perfectly adequate for flirtations in ballrooms, or filling your dancecard if you are lacking, but it can anything more than that. You know as well as I."

"And why?"

"I was not entirely truthful with you before." She paused, fiddled with her necklace, "Mrs Warner found me a husband. I am engaged to be married."

"Engaged?"

"Yes," she nodded. "He is a gentleman of forty years with considerable assets and a substantial income. He has a house on Grosvenor Street, we shall practically be neighbours. I know I can be happy with him."

"Do you love him?" He could see from the look hidden in her eyes that she did not.

"Love has nothing to do with matrimony, Fitzwilliam. You know that as well as I."

He finished his punch, suddenly he wasn't of the temperament for dancing.

"Well, I congratulate you, Miss Bingley, on your upcoming marriage," he said, his tone icy.

"Fitz, please don't take umbrage at the fact that I am choosing to do this."

"You could have had so much more."

"Maybe I don't want it."

He took her hand in his and kissed it softly. For the past few months in town, Louisa Bingley had been his close friend and confidante, and he could have fallen in love with her. He knew he could. Now she was marrying for convenience and fortune, he knew she wasn't a romantic, understood her reasons, but he still felt that she was making a mistake even if he would never tell her.

The music began to play Mr Beveridges Maggot and he watched as the couples began to form the dance – Charles Bingley was there dressed in the new breeches, which had caused such a kerfuffle in the days before Christmas, Sarah Purcell, his latest beau, was also in attendance, although not dancing with his good friend, a fact he found strange. His Aunts and Uncles were also rising to dance, whilst his cousin Anne loitered around the edges of the room watching with amusement, and he gestured for her attention and she pushed her way through the crowd.

"Anne, dearest, how are you finding the entertainment?"

"Oh adequate as usual, Darcy," she laughed taking a sup of her wine. "We had better be careful with this, Staughton has gone overboard with the port and I'm absolutely positive that he is determined we shall all be in our cups before midnight so he can retire early."

"Bingley seems to be having a grand old time."

"Such larks for Tuesday, and such a pretty partner. Where on earth did he find her?"

"They were introduced by Lady Pomfret at a recital in the Assembly Rooms."

"You went to Bath? When did you go to Bath?"

"September, but it was there they met, and Charles declared her to be his darling girl."

"Do you think he might marry this one?"

"Charles has been in love five times this year already, I am of the opinion that if I stand still for too long he may fall in love with me!"

Anne looked up at him with a confused look on her face and then giggled, "Oh Fitz, you are hilarious! Anyway, who on earth would marry you? For they would have to endure you on Sundays when you are bored and monstrous!"

They watched the dancing for a moment, Pemberley was sparkling in the light – the portraits of Sir Piers D'Arcy and Matilda looking down on the festivities, the six-hour candles flickering away in the chandelier. This was the first of many grand occasions that Pemberley would host now he was master.

"How is your mama?"

"Still determined to have me declared an invalid so she can take control of my fortune," Anne said. His youngest cousin had always been sickly, but rather than her mama trying to encourage a recovery she seemed determined to focus on a steady decline.

"We can get married, if you like," he nudged, "she may well leave you alone."

"Marry you? I'd rather marry Bingley! But Mama is determined for me not to marry anyone, because once I do it all becomes mine."

"The true mistress of Rosings."

"Precisely… The amounts she is spending…," Anne sighed. "Don't think you are off the hook though, dearest Fitz, she will most definitely use our _betrothal_ as a stick to whip you with if you don't behave!"

Anne finished her drink, kissed her cousin on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd, away from the dancing and the direct sight of her mother. Georgiana was laughing and clapping along to the music, watching the dancing, she saw him looking at her and grinned with a large smile.

The room was now hot and sweaty, and he began to regret the fancy knot on his very high cravat. Outside in the courtyard the sky above Pemberley was dark and crisp, there was a coldness on the wind that suggested snowfall, the crackle and smoke from the beacons was drifting in on the air, and he wandered out to the driveway. In the distance he could hear the frantic gallop of a horse thundering up the drive – gestured to the coachmen to see who it was. The horse was brought into the gates, the loud echo of hooves on cobbles. The rider dismounted, removing his hat and riding coat, passing them to one of the red and blue liveried footmen stood to attention.

"Can I ask who is calling, sir?"

"Yes," said the gentleman

Fitzwilliam looked up quickly at the sound of the voice, he would recognise it anywhere.

"And who should I say is calling, sir?" The gentleman was strolling towards the porch now as the footman scurried after him.

"Please tell Mr Darcy that Mr Wickham is here at his invitation."


	5. 1808 - January 2

George Wickham sauntered into the entrance hall of the house he had known for nearly all of his life. But that was over now, George Darcy was dead, and Wickham was determined to make his own way in the world – away from the influences and desires of the Darcy family. He did not, however, have the Darcy family money and it was for this reason and this reason alone, that he had travelled up from town, leaving his creditors and scoundrels chasing after him. Inside it was overwhelmingly loud after the silence of the cold ride from Derby - the excitement of guests, the laughter of children, the music playing, the clink of glasses – the Darcys always did know how to throw a party, and the Twelfth Night ball had always been his most favourite part of Christmas.

"Welcome back to Pemberley, Mr Wickham."

He turned to see Fitz, now the master of all he surveyed, standing before him in a years old evening coat, his cravat fastened a little too high. Always awkward, the vast wealth that he had inherited had not served to make Fitzwilliam Darcy anymore convivial in company, he had heard as much in the saloons and drawing rooms of London where his own easy charm had served him very well indeed.

"Mr Darcy, thank you for the invitation."

Fitz visibly ruffled, he had not seen Wickham since they had returned from the continent – the expedition that they had embarked upon as part of their grand tour, paid for, of course, by his own most excellent father, who had always wanted more for the boy who was his namesake. He had shielded his father from the worst of Wickham's wickedness - the trail of ruined young girls, the numerous babes abandoned, the debts that he paid from his own purse – but it was when George Darcy was dying, asking for his godson, that Fitz was unable to hide George Wickham's cruelty. Ignoring every plea, every letter, even a direct call from Uncle Fitzwilliam, the only notification that Fitz received was that Wickham would be in touch once the will had been read to collect his dues. Any brotherly affection that he had carried for George Wickham had died that day, following his father to the grave, and now all Fitz could see when he looked at the handsome gentleman was a carrion crow determined to pick on the bones of the dead.

"It was Georgiana who sent the invite, George. You know how she cares for you."

Wickham turned, a smile upon his lips as he spotted Georgiana waving to him from across the room. She bounded over and threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"George, you have come back!"

"I have indeed, Georgiana. How big you have grown now? I imagine you are the same height now as Lady Wyndham."

"Lady Violet Wyndham? Have you made her acquaintance?"

"The very same! We move in similar circles and I have had the pleasure of that lady's company more than once."

Georgiana looked at her brother expectantly, urging him to say something, but he didn't, and she frowned, before continuing.

"Fitz, we should get George some refreshment after his journey," she took Wickham by the arm, "come with me, there are lots of people I wish you to meet."

Fitz knew the pleasure that George Wickham had taken in Lady Wyndham's company, had seen the evidence splashed over the society pages, the sad look on her husband's face each time he appeared in public. As he watched his childhood friend walk into the crowd with his sister, he felt a sense of dread and horror wash over him. He didn't know why, but there was something different about Wickham now, something he feared. Following them he saw him laugh with Georgiana, subtly removing a ringlet of hair from her face, calling over to Caroline Bingley with whom he was already acquainted. This was not right. Louisa saw his expression, caught his eye, summoned him to the bottom of the stairs with a worried look on her face.

"The scoundrel Wickham," she hissed, " what is he doing here?"

"Georgiana sent the invitation; I was unaware of it."

Louisa sought his eye with look of concern upon her face, "but does she not know what kind of creature he is?"

Fitz looked over to where his sister, Wickham and Caroline Bingley were standing in conversation, the women laughing, the jewels adorning Caroline's neck catching the light, the diamond clip that was their mother's sparkling in Georgiana's hair. Bingley pushed past them, making his way over, nodding his acquaintance to Wickham as he passed by.

"My god, Darcy, what made you invite a rogue such as Wickham to your assembly? You need to advise your guests to pay close attention to their wives!"

Fitz sighed, Louisa shot her brother a look of annoyances, "it was Georgiana who sent the invite," she said, "she is not of an age to know the devilish things that man is capable of."

"You sound as if he has thoroughly offended you, sister! Damn long way to travel though for a ball."

"He is here for another reason," Fitz said, "naught to do with the ball, although I anticipate he would not want to offend or upset my sister. No, he is here because the reading of my father's will is due to take place this Tuesday week."

"So, Wickham has come for what is due to him," Louisa said, "how very thoughtful of him."

"And will he have a room here at Pemberley?" Charles wasn't sure how he felt about having such a gentleman under the same roof as his sisters overnight.

"Of course not," Fitz shook his head, "his family reside in a cottage in the grounds and he can stay there."

"Good," smiled Charles, his attention drawn to Miss Purcell who was walking down the stairs towards him, "you must excuse me, I have neglected my dancing partner for far too long this evening."

Sarah appeared at his side. She was a short plump girl with a pretty smile and a headful of curls, she was also in possession of a more than ample bosom that she adorned with pretty jewels, that hung tantalisingly low. Fitz could see exactly what his friend saw in the charming Miss Purcell, however, he most sincerely hoped that the only thing he was promising her was an invitation to the opera or playhouse. Sarah Purcell was the youngest daughter of a recently impoverished landowning gentleman from the neighbouring county and, as such, was searching for wealthy husband who would be able to rescue her father from his current business situation. Bingley was always of the temperament to think with his heart rather than his head, Fitz was concerned that he would end up getting himself bound into a less than desirable situation – always led by pretty smiles and polite conversations.

"My poor brother, he's bound to end up engaged before the year out."

"Knowing Charles he probably won't be aware that the event has even occurred," Fitz smiled.

Louisa plastered on her smile, "Mr Wickham," she announced, proffering her hand as Wickham and Georgiana walked towards them, "how delightful to see you once again."

Taking her hand, he kissed it softly, a snake lip smile on his lips, "Miss Bingley, the pleasure is all mine. Is it true that I hear you are to be wed?"

"Louisa, are you getting married?" Georgiana said, looking quickly at her brother.

"Yes, you have heard correctly," Louisa was all smiles, but Fitz knew it was all a show. "The gentleman in question is a Mr Hurst from Gateshead."

"A Mr Hurst from Gateshead? He sound positively wonderful, you are going to be so happy, Louisa."

"Hear that, Darcy," Wickham jostled, "the agreeable and talented Miss Bingley had been snapped up by a very lucky gentleman, I suppose you are half green with envy."

"Not at all," he said, gulping down his anger with port. "Georgiana, I would like this next dance with you, would you oblige?"

Wickham ruffled, Georgiana glanced at him, then back to her brother, "I am happy to dance, Fitz, but George wanted me to take him to see the lake."

"Mr Wickham can see the lake tomorrow, Georgiana," Louisa interrupted with a trill to her voice, "why it is freezing outside, and supper is nearly ready to be served."

Georgiana look up with an unsure expression on her face, "Miss Bingley is right, George. We will get a better look at the lake tomorrow." She passed her the small pink reticule and taking her brother's hand, walked over to the dancefloor. "Come Fitz, my dancing skills are much improved, and I want to show off!"

"That was very clever of you, Miss Bingley," he said, "stealing away my young companion like that."

"Stealing her away? Why, George, she is the arms of her brother – look, how she smiles."

Looking at Fitz happily dancing with his sister, she could tell that Wickham was seething. She did not know of his intent with Georgiana Darcy, but she suspected it was less than honourable. Louisa Bingley saw through Wickham, saw through his smiles and his charm and his flirtations. He had left a trail of devastation in his wake, and she was determined that no other women of her acquaintance would fall foul of it.


	6. 1808 - February

The rain was relentless. Pounding away at the windowpanes, rattling the sashes, causing an eerie quiet in the courtyard, usually filled with the clump of boots or shoes as servants hurried from one place to another. But today, all Georgiana could hear was the rain lashing the ground, and the sound of her own boredom. Fitz had ridden the five miles into Lambton, braving the weather to speak with the family attorney, Mr Winchester, and she did not expect him back before nightfall. Slouched on the settee in the drawing room, the fire crackled, it seemed as if the rain would last forever. A young red headed maid clattered in with a large tray full of vases containing little pink posies, and she began to place them on the table. Georgiana watched her intently, she was certain the girl was the same age that she was, she smiled at her, but the girl turned her head and moved away. Mrs Reynolds was performing her morning routine, checking that each and every housemaid duty had been performed to her satisfaction. She sighed at the sight of the youngest Darcy slouched on the settee and walked over to plump the cushions.

"Miss Georgiana," she said with an ill-disguised huff, "what are you doing out of your rooms?"

"I am bored, Mrs Reynolds," she sighed, "Fitz has gone to Lambton, Mr Bingley is still abed, and Miss Bingley and Miss Caroline are in the long gallery playing skittles."

"And do you not wish to partake in skittles?"

"Miss Caroline is very competitive…"

"And Miss Bingley?"

"Always lets her sister win," Georgiana rose from the settee and walked over to the bay window, where multi-coloured stained glass rose from each pane. Even on a dull day like today they still shone like jewels. "You know enough of me Mrs Reynolds to know that I am never of the mind to let people win."

"Aye, Miss Georgiana, I know enough of you indeed," she stood admiring the girl who she had practically raised from birth. It had been a rainy day like this when Lady Anne Darcy had died pushing her precious daughter into life, and a day when the world at Pemberley had almost crumbled. Georgiana was nearly a fully grown woman now, nearly ready to be out in society, but for all of her cleverness and learning, she was still a child in so many ways, and needed educating in the ways of fashionable society - the complicated rules that she would have to follow as member of the _Ton._ The older lady raised an eyebrow, "is there nothing that you can be doing to keep yourself occupied?"

Georgiana sighed again, absentmindedly plucking the strings of the harp, which gave out a satisfying deep tone, and then dramatically throwing herself down onto the large pink ottoman which dominated this side of the room.

"I wish George hadn't gone back to London," she whined, her legs swinging over the edge. "He always makes Pemberley much more fun, and I could most certainly rely on him to keep Miss Caroline busy for the afternoon so that Miss Bingley and I could play some duets," Georgiana rose to her feet again, as much as Fitz got restless and fidgety she got more so, and did not have the luxury of being able to ride off as and when she pleased. "George says he has a new pianoforte in his house in town, have you ever heard him play, Mrs Reynolds? He is very accomplished, I have never been so entertained…"

"George Wickham is not the kind of gentleman you should wish to be being entertained by," as soon as Mrs Reynolds said the words, she wished she could retract them.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, Miss Georgiana, I was speaking out of turn."

"You most certainly _were_, Mrs Reynolds, and you should think more carefully before you speak about Mr Wickham - "

"I am so…"

"_Mrs Reynolds_, George Wickham was my father's godson and is my own dearest friend, and a friend of your master's too."

Mrs Reynolds stood before the woman that she had cradled as babe in arms, "yes, Miss Darcy."

"I shall go up to the long gallery now, I think," she said sharply, "please send refreshment up there on the hour."

"Yes, Miss Darcy," she said quietly with a dipped head, before walking into the stag parlour thoroughly admonished.

The rain started to fall even harder, a crack of thunder in the distance. Georgiana Darcy had never felt so terrible in all of her life.

* * *

The offices of Winchester & Sparrow were on the newer part of the High Street in Lambton, although there was little business being conducted in the town on this cold, wet morning as the rain pounded the cobbles. Darcy dismounted, handing his horse over to the stable boy at the Bull's Head, the meeting was to discuss the terms of his father's bequest to George Wickham.

"Fitzwilliam," Mrs Helena Winchester had known him since he was a boy, and she greeted him with a gentle embrace, "why you are wet through!" He could see the mark of him on her dress. "I will ask Maria to stoke the fire and bring you a glass, Horatio is just through there," she gestured to the back office, "would you like anything to eat?"

"No, thank you," he said, handing her his riding jacket and hat, pools of water gathered on the floor. "Maybe I should have brought the carriage."

"A decision that would have proven valuable in hindsight!" She laughed as she took the garments from him, disappearing into the back room that constituted her own private parlour. Darcy knew that Helena Winchester was the driving force behind her husband's law practice, and a very clever woman in her own right – if women were allowed to be educated, he had no doubt that it would be Helena receiving the payment for her services. Horatio Winchester was the third son of his father's aunt, and so the two men were related albeit distantly. He was a solid slab of a man with a ruddy nose, grey sideburns that reached to almost his chin, and a deep, booming voice that commanded respect and, if you were on the wrong side of him, instilled a sense of fear. Formerly he had been a Justice in the City, before retreating to the north for a comfortable semi-retirement as a country solicitor.

"Darcy! Do come on in," the office was stuffed full of papers, stacked books on every surface, the walls lined with shelves filled with heavy official looking tomes. A small fire spat and sputtered as Horatio took a poker and agitated it back to life. "So, this terrible business with Wickham, eh? That boy – what are we to do with him?"

"That is precisely why I have come for your advice."

Fitz took a seat on the soft chair nearest the fire, Horatio pulled a folio from the shelf behind him, opening it up and laying the papers within it out.

"Right, let's get to business. Your father wished Wickham to be given the parish at Kympton, which is a good living…"

"Yes, over two hundred pounds a year."

"Plus, the thousand pounds he will receive as your father's godson," he studied the papers. "Does he baulk at this?"

"Indeed," he gave the older gentleman a pointed look, they both knew that George Wickham was not a suitable shepherd for the flock at Kympton.

Maria entered with a two tankards of ale and sliced of cheese and hunks of bread on a blue patterned plate, Fitz reached for the ale and drank heartily.

"All of us are aware that Wickham had no desire for a life in the Church, but what else is he to do? His looks and charm will only get him so far," Horatio grumbled, "unless he manages to kidnap a particularly dim heiress and run her up to Scotland."

"I wouldn't wish that on any woman."

"We could purchase him a commission in the Army? He could be an officer for the right amount…"

"He would like that…yes, I could see him rather taking to the idea. But it would have to be the right amount, of course."

"Alternatively, we can offer a monetary amount rather than Kympton, but he would have to sign something to state that he wouldn't contest it," Horatio took a piece of the still-warm bread. "But it would need to be a substantial amount."

"How much is a substantial amount?"

Helena came back in with biscuits and sat herself down on the edge of her husband's desk.

"I have been looking at the figures, and what we have worked out is…" Horatio looked back down at the folio.

"We worked out that the annuity for Kympton, plus the cost of housing would roughly be about two and a half thousand pounds," his wife interrupted, taking the paper from him and sitting next to Fitz at the fire, "plus another five hundred for the sundries and expenses which would be covered by that position."

"Three thousand pounds?!" Fitz rose to his feet, stood in front of the fire, seeking out some kind of advice from its blistering flame. "But if I settle this sum upon him, he will be out of my life… Georgiana's life for good?"

Horatio looked at his wife, who looked up at Fitz, "we cannot guarantee that. We can guarantee, via the law of the land, that he cannot then contest the will and ask for more money. But we cannot stipulate anything further than that."

"Unfortunately, Darcy," Horatio said with a sad voice, "you will have to rely on the gentleman's good nature."

"Well, we all know there is no value in _that_."

"Are you still paying his debts in town, Fitzwilliam?" Helena's sister was married to a baronet, and she knew the comings and goings of fashionable society, even up here in Derbyshire.

"Not willingly," he was frustrated now, because all of his attempts to free himself of George Wickham seemed to come to naught, "he gave his place of residence as Derbyshire House – most of our circle only know that we were raised together - and creditors were sent there. I cannot have the servants threatened in their place of work; it will not do."

"You are right," Helena said kindly, "but the fact of the matter is he should not be putting your name into disrepute. I think we could add a clause here to say that any future debts will result in him being sent to the debtors prison."

"Debtors prison?" Her husband exclaimed, "is that not a little harsh?"

"Horatio, darling, you and I are both veterans of London society, and with men like George Wickham you have to take them firmly in hand, show them that their behaviour will not be tolerated."

Fitz was unsure, as much as he resented paying for Wickham's lifestyle, he still felt responsible for him as if he were a younger brother beyond reproach, rather than the son of his father's steward who had been expensively educated and then improperly elevated to a rank where he had only his wits and charm to recommend him. The Darcys were responsible for the creature that they had created in George Wickham, and Fitz knew that he would be paying for it for a good long while yet.

"I am happy for us to offer him three thousand pounds instead of the living at Kympton," he wasn't, "and then the thousand pounds from my father as is his right."

"If you are certain, Fitzwilliam," he said, "but there can be no guarantee that he will leave you alone."

"That is a risk I have to take, write up the contract and he will sign it. I am due to meet him Friday in town, is that enough time?"

Horatio nodded, "aye, we can prepare the documents. Do you think he will sign it willingly?"

"He would sign anything if it guaranteed him money," Darcy lamented. "All I want is for him to have an income and live within his means."

"Four thousand pounds will give him an admirable income," Helena said, taking a bite of biscuit, "but I fear it will not keep him in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed."

Fitz took a biscuit, "that is my biggest fear too."

* * *

"And why did you speak to Mrs Reynolds in such a way, sister?"

Georgiana blushed a furious red, she felt so guilty that she needed to speak to her brother as if telling him would absolve her of the crime.

"She spoke ill of George, and I thought it bad form from a servant."

Fitzwilliam sat down heavily in the chair in his study, he was still full of a chill from the ride home and gestured for Georgiana to stoke the fire. It blazed furiously, he was grateful for the heat. Pemberley was a draughty old house, even with all the new building works going ahead, he was sure that the chilly wind from the Peaks would still make its way into his bones.

"Georgie, Mrs Reynolds is more than a servant to us. She is part of our family, and we cannot reprimand her in such a way in front of the lower maids. That is where the real bad form lies."

Georgiana sat down in front of the fire, "is that why it felt so bad?"

"Probably… Mrs Reynolds probably should have held her tongue regarding George, but…"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is it true what she said about George?"

"Well… I…." he started.

"Because Miss Caroline said something similar too when we were playing billiards with Charles, and they all laughed and called George a scoundrel… is George a scoundrel? For he never comes to Pemberley anymore, and you didn't invite him for Twelfth Night, you know how much he loves it. I checked the list after you gave it to Willis and I took the liberty of adding his name on, because I knew you had forgotten." She saw the frown pass across his face, "you had only forgotten, hadn't you? You didn't omit George on purpose, did you?"

Fitz didn't know what to say, he didn't want to tarnish the happy memories of Wickham that Georgiana had, because they were intimately tied to the memories and recollections she had of their father.

"I must admit sister that I did."

"Is this because of Egypt? Because of your quarrel? Did you keep him away from Papa?" She rose to her feet, "did George not come to see Papa when he was dying, because of you?"

"No," he shook his head furiously, "no Georgiana, that is not what happened at all"

She examined his face carefully for a moment, "tell me then. What did happen?"

He could tell that she was cross, that she had been sitting on this guilt all day since the incident with Mrs Reynolds, and now it had bubbled away inside her.

"George has been gambling in town," a truth, "and he accidentally lost a lot of money at the tables," a part truth, "so much that he was embarrassed to come back home to see Papa," a lie.

"Oh," she processed the information. "But he has enough money to live and keep a home, Fitz?"

"Yes, he does," another lie. Wickham was lodging in Soho with a woman called Mrs Churchill, who was well-known for keeping a house of ill-repute. Indeed, Mrs Churchill was one of London's most notorious bawds, and a former lover of half the aristocracy.

"Good, for I would hate to think that he would have to sell his pianoforte. Can we not bring him home to Pemberley?" Georgiana was all concern for Wickham, he knew she would be.

"No, he is currently seeking employment in town." Another lie.

"Well, you can invite him to Derbyshire House for the start of the season, for I am sure that he would love to attend any social engagements as our guest. It is the least we can do for him, brother, is it not?"

Fitz knew that his lies had him trapped in a corner, for he could neither reject nor accept his sister's proposal without seeming less than charitable to dear old impoverished George.

"That sounds like a good idea," he said, with the enthusiasm of a convict being transported to the colonies. "I shall be seeing George this Friday week; you may send a letter with me if you wish?"

Georgiana beamed, "could I not come to town with you to see him?"

"You forget sister, that your new companion is due to arrive, you need to be here to greet her."

"Oh, I had forgotten! What is her name again…?"

"Who?" he smiled. It had been a hard year for them both, but now they could start to plan for the future.

"My companion, silly, which lady did you and Aunt Fitzwilliam choose in the end?"

"Oh," he said, opening the door, "Mrs Younge."


	7. 1808 - March

He caught sight of her from across a crowded assembly room, her hair twisted and piled on top of her head, held in place with tiny flowers. She looked like a goddess, he turned to look where Charles was, and then back to see her, but she was gone. The room was aglow with candles, filled with chatter and noise; in the corner a quarter of players were dragging themselves through a tune as a cotillion of dancers finished with a flourish of bows and curtseys. His new jacket felt stiff, and the leather dancing pumps had obviously shrunk since he last wore them and were rubbing the back of his heel. Fitz had missed the beginning of the season due to being tied up with matters pertaining to his father's will, and this was his first official event of the year. Caroline was dressed in a mustard yellow dress with a shimmery gold turban perched atop of her fashionably curly hair, she looked like a rather elegant head of wheat towering above the other girls; Louisa was in blue, which brought out the colour of her eyes, and next to her the newly acquired husband, who she had married barely a week ago at the church in Hanover Square by special license.

"Fitz," she waved over to him, "how on earth are you? We were wondering when you would make an appearance."

Her husband, a lofty broad man with blonde tufts of hair that sprouted out in all directions, did a customary bow.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley," he said, in a blustery voice, "what a damned pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, I mean I have heard of you, of course. Terrible business with your father, I am sorry to hear it. He was a good man."

Fitz look surprised, "you knew my father?"

"Yes," Mr Hurst said, downing his glass, "we were at Oxford together, lost touch after I went to the Caribbean, of course. You must excuse me, Mr Darcy, I've just seen Lady Colthurst and I must pay my respects."

Mr Hurst walked over to a short, round lady with a hefty bosom, on which she was displaying a copious amount of diamonds, Louisa turned on Fitz immediately.

"Have you heard the latest on Charles's little sweetheart?"

"Which one? Miss Purcell? I have not… would you care to oblige?"

"Charles is distraught. He was meant to be in attendance tonight, but –"

"Louisa… what happened with Miss Purcell?"

"She is engaged to another, an officer with the King's Own Regiment."

"Engaged this whole time?"

"Yes, apparently so. All of her affection towards Charles was merely a harmless flirtation, he had no idea of it and let himself fall for her like the lovestruck buffoon he is."

"Louisa! I cannot have you speak of Charles like that…" she caught his eye and they began to laugh between themselves in the loud roar of Almack's, where the cream of London society was gathered for entertainment, dancing and gossip.

"He is such a fool for a pretty girl, you have to care of him this summer, Fitz, or else he will end up wed to a beautiful farmer's daughter with lovely eyes and no manners."

"Oh, I will take a care of it, Mrs Hurst, you have no worry about that."

"Don't call me Mrs Hurst, it makes me sound like a frightening grand old dame."

"I suppose that's what you are now!" He was teasing her, she liked it. Louisa was concerned that her marriage would alter her friendship with Fitz, who she counted as one of her closest confidantes, but as they fell back in their easy manner with each other, she understood that nothing had really changed at all.

"You are vile, Fitzwilliam Darcy," she laughed, "anyway, have you spied the future mistress of Pemberley in the throng here this evening?"

"Louisa, you know I am not looking for a wife."

"Darcy, as a single man of fortune it is your duty to marry and have a son, you know this as well as I, whatever you may tell your sister to the contrary," she arched an eyebrow at him and turned her face back to the crowd, "there is a lady of my acquaintance who I think you would very much like to meet."

"Are you matchmaking, Mrs Hurst?"

She grinned, "not at all. But the lady in question in very accomplished, very beautiful, and I think of the perfect height to match you."

"When did my height become important?"

"Oh Fitz, hold your tongue for a moment," she said, " I could be telling you about the love of your life and you are teasing. If you like, I will introduce you."

"Alright," he said agreeably, "lead on to this earthly Venus of delights."

"Don't be so vulgar, Fitzwilliam," she said, and he considered himself told off indeed as they made their way through the gathering, stopping to say hello at acquaintances and friends as they walked past.

And there she was again in the crowd, the woman with the flowers in her hair, he wanted to stop again, be introduced to her – or to hell with it, he would introduce himself and be damned with conventions – but Louisa pulled him away again. Another glimpse, and she was gone.

"Mrs Hurst, can we please just - "

Louisa stopped, "here we are. Fitzwilliam Darcy, may I have the pleasure of introducing Miss Jemima Chandon…"

Fitz looked up, it was her. She curtseyed and held out her hand, "the pleasure is all mine, Mr Darcy."

When she spoke, it was as a choir of angels sang, her voice was the nectar of the heavens itself and he realised what Bingley had felt, how it was overwhelming and wondrous all at once. He recovered himself of sorts and took her hand.

"Miss Chandon, how delightful to meet you. Would you care to dance?"

She nodded and he led her onto the dancefloor feeling absolutely certain that if the world ended now, he would die a happy man knowing that he had met her.


	8. 1808 - Ramsgate

The house on Nelson Crescent covered four floors and was a brand-new townhouse, very cosmopolitan in style and with a balcony to the front. Indeed, the household of Georgiana Darcy were to be the very first tenants, and local society was fizzing with excitement upon hearing that Mr Darcy from Derbyshire had rented the house at the princely rate of sixteen pounds a month. The Darcys had reached Ramsgate on the Tuesday after a long and arduous journey from Rosings Park, arriving dishevelled and in need of refreshment. Georgiana squeezed out of the carriage, which had felt cramped and stuffy, even with only Mrs Younge and herself inside it, her brother choosing to ride up on his horse, for reasons she knew not. Her new companion was a handsome woman with a good taste in clothes, she had dressed for the last leg of their journey in a blue velvet spencer with cream dress underneath it embroidered with tiny flowers, and her bonnet was decorated with the finest ribbon and an ostrich feather, even though it had become crumpled in the carriage. She was fairly young too, and Georgiana had let her mind wander to thoughts of why Mrs Younge had been seeking a position such as this. It was obvious from her manners and interests that she had been well-educated, was not like the frumpy Mrs Bradshaw who always dressed in old-fashioned clothes and, despite her title, was most definitely a spinster. Mrs Younge, however, spoke French and told tales of her exploits on the continent, and she always knew what to order when they ventured to the teahouses in town, where the waiters would smile and flirt.

"What do you think of the house, Georgie?" Fitz said, as he finished his coffee. They had been welcomed with a cold supper of meat, cheese and bread, their trunks silently taken up to their rooms as they enjoyed their meal, whilst Mrs Younge disappeared downstairs to eat with the servants. It had taken a week to have the house prepared for their arrival, and he had planned everything meticulously with Mrs Younge to ensure that his sister had a full programme of activities for the next month.

Georgiana walked through quickly into the drawing room, a narrow thin room with tall ceilings embellished with intricate plaster, and a crystal chandelier that hung low and splendid.

"Oh," she gasped, "what a beautiful room!" She turned to her brother, "you spoil me, Fitz, you really do. You know it would have suited me perfectly adequately to stay Lady Roehampton in Brighton or with Lord Suffield in Cromer, you didn't need to rent an entire house for just me. But Ramsgate," she sighed delightedly, "I can smell the salt on the air already."

He took a seat on the new sofa, "not at, sister. I want you to be happy and have an enjoyable month while I am away. I didn't want to leave you with Aunt Catherine for another four weeks."

"Thank goodness! I think another week alone might have finished me off… she never lets me finish a sentence, Fitz, and she seems to think that my own opinion on my own activities is invalid."

"Aunt Catherine is a lady of her own mind," he said, "I find that the easiest way to deal with her is simply to agree."

"It's all well and good for you," she sat on the piano bench, her legs swinging idly, "you are her favourite, after all. Did this come with the house?" She gestured to the mahogany pianoforte that stood on claw legs, the lid already open, sheet music waiting on the stand.

"Not quite," he said, "I ordered it just after Christmas. Mrs Hurst thought you might enjoy playing it, she chose the music for it herself. We will take the instrument back to Pemberley when the month is done."

"Really? I get it to keep it?" He hadn't seen a smile so wide on her face for a long time as he nodded in confirmation. "Oh Fitzwilliam, you are the best brother in the whole world entire."

He laughed at her excitement, the trip to Ramsgate would do her good. "Mrs Younge and I have planned a whole itinerary for you whilst you are here, I shall stay for the next few days and then onward to Wakefield."

"And then back to town?"

"Only for a week or so, Bingley would like me to help him a find a country estate."

"Mr Bingley is looking for a house? That's brilliant, you must find him one with spectacular views and good attics."

"Good attics? What would you know about good attics?"

"Well, I _don't_ know about good attics, but Mrs Reynolds always says that they are very important, so it would be a good thing for Mr Bingley to have a house with them."

"I suppose so, although I think good hunting and a ballroom are his main priorities." He poured himself a glass of port, "he would like to begin his search in Hertfordshire."

"And what is there in Hertfordshire for Mr Bingley?"

"He is searching for a wife, after exhausting nearly all of London I think he has moved his search outward."

Georgiana idly pressed the keys on the pianoforte, "it seems a good a place to start as any. What about you, Fitz, did you meet anyone?"

"Nobody important."

He wasn't in the habit of lying to his sister, but for the moment he wanted to keep his feelings of affection for Miss Godwin to himself, he didn't like the thought of sharing her. It wasn't that he wanted to keep it a secret, because Fitzwilliam would have climbed to the roof of the house in Grosvenor Square and shouted it to the heavens for all to hear, but that he needed to make sure.

"You are smiling, Fitz," Georgiana said, "I think you _have_ been introduced to someone important."

"No, not at all." He didn't realise that he had given himself away so easily, but it should have been no surprise, his sister could read him like a book.

"Tell me, Fitzwilliam…" She raised an eyebrow at him, reminding him very much of Aunt Catherine.

He refused to concede, but she continued to stare at him until he sighed with exasperation.

"Alright, I was introduced to someone."

"Pray, continue…"

"She is called Miss Godwin. Her family are from Yorkshire, her father owns property there. In fact, her family home, Selwyn Court, is but ten miles from Waddingham."

"Does she know Aunt and Uncle Fitzwilliam?"

He shook his head, "she is not acquainted with them."

"But you would like her to be, am I correct in my assertion, brother?"

He smiled a wry little smile, his eyes sparkling a little, Georgiana had never seen Fitz like this, but she liked it.

"Whoever I marry, my dearest darling sister, would have to meet your approval first," he said as he held her hand tightly, "or I have to be absolutely sure that you would adore her."

"I am certain that whomever you choose, Fitz, will be perfect."

"I hope so."

They had an extended family of cousins, aunts, and uncles, but it was always Fitzwilliam and Georgiana against the world, he knew it always would be as long as she needed him, as long as they needed each other.

* * *

Fitz stayed for three days before travelling onward to Waddingham, Georgiana begged him to write every day and he promised that he would as often as time allowed. She watched him mount his horse, feeling almost tearful. It wasn't the first time they had been separated since their father died, and it most certainly wasn't the first time Fitz had been away for extended periods of time, but it was the first time he had left her alone with a household of her own. There was no Aunt Catherine or Uncle Henry to run to if she needed advice, and she wasn't quite sure if she knew Mrs Younge well enough yet to confide in her.

The first week proper was filled with visits from the younger ladies of local families and their mothers, as well as a visit from cousin Richard, which was quite unexpected. He brought her more sheet music, strands of silk yarns for her needlework and a little bundle of brightly coloured fabrics that he had brought back from France.

"Is it true they are going to make you a Colonel, Richard?"

"I hope it is," he said, enjoying the jugged hare that had been carefully chosen and prepared for his arrival. Georgiana knew that it had been a favourite of his. "I return to the regiment on Saturday, but hopefully not for long."

"Well, I am very proud of Richard," she smiled, raising her glass, "Colonel Fitzwilliam."

"Not quite yet, G, but next time we meet…if god wish it."

"All talk has been of wives recently, Richard, do you think you will have a wife the next time you visit?"

"It's always harder to find a wife when one is a second son," he lamented.

"But easier, I think, because there are no expectations."

"No money either," he said. "Who has been talking of wives? Fitz?"

"Yes," she grinned, eager to share with her cousin, "he has met a lady who has caught his eye and he seems fairly enamoured with her. I have written to Mrs Hurst to fill me in with the details, but she is very reticent when it comes to gossip and my brother."

"Ah yes," he said, "I heard that Louisa Bingley had wed."

He took a mouthful of the jugged hare, and Georgiana was pleased to note how much he was enjoying it. She had asked the cook, Mrs Gibbons, to cook it as his particular favourite. Richard was so unlike Fitz, apart from their height which was the same. He carried his weight differently too, and whilst Fitz would sometimes look proud and awkward in social situations, Richard was full of confidence. He had been gone a long time though, away from society, fighting the French, and he had been very brusque earlier with Mr Edwards, the family's London butler who was running her household here in Ramsgate.

"She has. She wrote to me a few days ago to say how wonderfully happy she is, and how eagerly she is anticipating my arrival in town at the end of the season, for she has many trips planned to recitals and plays."

"How wonderful a friend she is," Richard said, his mouth full, "I hear she has a sister – maybe I should call on her when I am next in London."

Georgiana tried hard to hide a smile, for she knew that proud, disagreeable Caroline Bingley would never allow herself to be courted by a gentleman like Richard Fitzwilliam, regardless of his noble ancestry and good name, but it would be amusing to see him try. He could be quite determined when he wanted to be.

"That sounds like a marvellous idea, cousin."

Richard smiled, a big grin, and continued on with his meal.

* * *

Miranda Tench looked at herself in the mirror. She wondered where the bloom of her youth had gone, disappeared already in the arms of a disreputable gentleman, she guessed, although she was unsure which of them finally wiped her away. She had done a good job with her costume for this job – the role of a lady's companion – the clothes borrowed from a girl who had left to become mistress to a young lord from Scotland – they were slightly too small and she had to lace her stays extra tight to fit into them. The references had been acquired through immoral means too, written by the unfaithful wives of cuckolded husbands desperate to avoid a scandal. She had sailed through the meeting with the young gentleman, who seemed to take her at face value, not digging too deep after he read her recommendations, and he had offered her the position within the day. It was all part of the plan. The girl was asleep now, finally, Miranda thought, as she combed out her hair. She was a nice enough girl, spoke more like an older lady than a child barely out of the schoolroom. Luckily it was only for another few days and then she would be able to get back home to London, back to her daughter, and if all went as it should, a few days after that she would be in receipt of a handsome fee. But for now, she was Mrs Emily Younge, and she simply had to maintain the pretence for a little while longer.


	9. 1808 - London

Grosvenor Square was extremely busy even for the height of the season. Fitz looked out onto the street below, each side of the road was packed full of carriages carrying pretty ladies with fancifully trimmed bonnets, and smart gentlemen with pitch-black beaver top hats and well-trimmed jackets. The noise was clattering across the square and he looked down, a cup of coffee in his hand, feeling almost like a god watching the machinations of man in miniature below him.

"Excuse me, sir," said Thorpe.

The under-butler was stepping up to the main job whilst Mr Edwards was away with Miss Georgiana and still a little nervous in the role, despite being trained by Mr Staughton at Pemberley. He held the card in his hand before he remembered that it should be on a platter, disappearing into the hallway and returning with the card in its correct position.

"Mr Thorpe, please stop panicking," Fitz said with a reassuring smile. "I never did care for silver platters."

He took the card and read the name: _Edmund Godwin, Esq._

"You can show the gentleman in," Fitz began to straighten his jacket, "and arrange for Mrs Boyle to send up refreshments."

"Very well, sir," said Thorpe as he edged out of the room.

"And Thorpe…"

"Yes, Mr Darcy sir?"

"Do I look presentable?"

Thorpe looked over at his master, they were of a similar age, he wondered why he needed to look presentable for this gentleman caller, but he knew that if it were this important, he should help him straighten his cravat, and maybe brush off his jacket a little.

"There you go, sir," he said, as Fitz readjusted his waistcoat, before disappearing into the hallway to find the Darcy's redoubtable London housekeeper.

"Yes, I think I will do," Fitz checked his appearance in the pier-glass that stood between the two large windows. He wondered if it would be too much to take a posy from the vase and tuck it into his buttonhole. Yes, it would, he agreed with himself, putting the flower back into its place.

Mr Edward Godwin was, as his name suggested, a god-fearing gentleman. His reputation preceded him, as did the rumours for his visit. Fitz had spent enough time with the gentleman's ward, Miss Jemima, to know that the family had been hopeful that an offer of marriage was to be made. If the decision alone was his, he would have thrown down his suit right here and now for the promise of Miss Godwin's love and affection. But she needed to meet his sister first. He had sworn that he was not going to make an offer until the approval of Georgiana had been obtained, and he was not in the habit of breaking promises. Mr Godwin strode into the drawing room of the house in Grosvenor Square, his newly heeled shoes making a decided click-clack on the marble floor. He was shorter than Fitz imagined he would be and had a white moustache and thick fuzzy sideburns.

"Mr Darcy of Pemberley, I presume," he said, proffering his hand.

"Yes," Fitz said, reaching to shake it. "I have been expecting your visit, Mr Godwin."

Godwin took a seat, Fitz sat opposite, and then there was an uneasy silence, broken by Thorpe arriving to serve the tea. Fitz eyed the gentleman as Thorpe busied himself offering sugar and milk, then small tiny cakes, then a biscuit. Tea was always a complicated ritual, no wonder it was oft left to ladies who had time for this kind of nonsense, he thought. As Thorpe was dismissed, the two men were left alone in the richly decorated room, faces of Darcy patriarchs and wives peering down sternly from the walls.

"I'm not going to be delicate about this, Mr Darcy," began Mr Godwin, "I know that you have intentions towards Jemima. I was simply wondering what you would expect in return."

Fitz felt a little confused, "expect in return? I'm sorry, sir, I misunderstand your meaning."

"Her marriage portion," he said offhand, "you must know that she comes with absolutely nothing."

"Mr Godwin, I understand the reason for your visit, however, I feel that we may be getting a little ahead of ourselves."

"But you hold my niece in high regard, do you not?"

"Aye, sir," Fitz nodded.

"Do you realise that the whole of Belgravia is expecting a wedding before the end of the season" The gentleman rustled in his seat, "I find this all very unbecoming of a gentleman like yourself, Mr Darcy of Pemberley. You cannot expect to pay all this attention to my niece and not imagine that it will raise certain expectations within our household."

Fitz himself was expecting a wedding before the end of the season, but no proposal would be made before Georgiana's return from Ramsgate.

"Yes, Mr Godwin, I do." Fitz rose to his feet, "and once an offer is made then the whole of Belgravia will be satisfied. Will they not?"

Mr Godwin processed the statement, and then he began to smile and laugh with a deep baritone, which was ill at ease with his short stature. "Very well," he said, finally biting the millefruit biscuit on his plate. "I can see why my niece likes you."

* * *

The carriage bumped over the cobbles, inside the gentleman was rocked back and forth. He hadn't travelled far but had gone to great lengths to make it look as though he had ventured a great distance. Ruffling his cravat, unbuttoning his waistcoat, he called the driver to stop outside the house on Nelson Crescent. He checked the number on the carefully folded piece of paper in his pocket. Number four. The house towered above him, the gaslights along the crescent casting a warm glow onto the paving slabs. It was just after ten, in the distance he could hear the faint chimes of church bells ending their reverie. There was the faint laughter from down on the harbour, the sound of the waves hitting the walls… And then, breathing in, like an actor preparing for a role, George Wickham disembarked from the carriage and ran up the steps, banging on the dark blue door with a firm and impatient knock.

* * *

Louisa Hurst felt that marriage agreed with her a great deal. Her husband, who was much older and of sometimes disagreeable temper kept an appropriate distance and, this being his second marriage, there was no impatience for the arrival of a child which suited his new bride most admirably. The house on Grosvenor Street was reasonably new, and there was little that she found to do to improve it, so she busied herself with friends and amusements, and writing long missives of friendship and advice to Miss Darcy, who she viewed to some degree as almost a sister. Her own sister had travelled back to the north to visit their mother, who had taken ill and requested the presence of one or other of them. Caroline had returned to their house in Cheshire with a dour expression and a bitter disappointment, after all, said she, Louisa already had a husband, whereas she alone was still actively seeking a suitable mate within the shallow pool of eligible gentlemen. Mrs Hurst sighed as she finished the rondo on the pianoforte, it was often best to spend an idle hour lost in the music she played, but today even that held no joy.

Templeton entered, his features disappearing in the red livery, a letter in his hand, which she took from him. The hand was that of Georgiana, written most hastily. She could always surmise when Miss Darcy was excited or distracted or not in the mood for letter writing as her beautiful hand began to slip clumsily across the paper as it had done here.

"Mr Darcy is also here to see you, Madame."

Louisa looked up, she had not seen Fitz for over a week, "oh, please show him in, Templeton. We will take some coffee in the drawing room."

"Very well, Madame," he bowed, as Fitz appeared behind him.

"Louisa," he said, a smile dancing across his lips, "how the devil are you?" He bounced down the settee, smiling all the while.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of this sudden change in Fitzwilliam Darcy's general demeanour. He was usually so restrained, in fact, she spent the first three months of their acquaintance thinking that he was the most disagreeable man she had ever met, and she had no wish to know him at all. But here he was, all smiles and delight. She suspected she knew the reason, had already heard the rumours of his impending engagement to Miss Godwin and whilst she was happy for him, she wasn't entirely sure if she approved. After Charles' recent disappointment she felt as if Fitz had fallen too quickly for Jemima, who was merely meant to be a casual amusement to flatter and flirt with, rather than a serious marriage prospect. Whilst she felt for herself that marriage was merely an agreement between two adults, she was firmly under the impression that Fitzwilliam Darcy, with all his brooding emotions, was actually a fairly romantic soul, wanting to marry for love rather than a business arrangement, and she wasn't entirely convinced that Jemima Godwin was of the same mind.

"You are looking very much like the cat that got the cream, Fitz," she said, sitting across from him on the settee, "are you feeling quite well?"

"As well as one can when a bright future is within their grasp," he sat up straight, "you have heard the gossip around town, I am sure."

"News travels fast when you are almost as indiscreet as my brother…"

He gave her a wry smile, "how _is_ Charles? We are due to leave for Hertfordshire within the month, although I may not have a need to venture into that county now."

"You are that certain she will accept you?"

"Her guardian has as much guaranteed it."

"But you have not asked the lady herself, are you sure that she is of the same mind as her guardian?" Louisa gestured to Templeton to serve the coffee, passing Fitz one of the gilt-edged teacups. "You cannot have the arrogance to assume that she will accept your suit simply because you are Fitzwilliam Darcy and you own half of Derbyshire."

He laughed, "of course not, but it definitely helps." Taking a quick sip of the coffee he rose and wandered over to the small table where she had placed Georgiana's letter, "I see my sister has written to you, although judging by her hand I have no idea how it reached you."

"Indeed! She has been telling me all about Ramsgate, although I have yet to read this newest epistle…" she took the letter, sliding her finger under Georgiana Darcy's small wax seal and opening the three pages of paper. "Oh, she is very well…"

"I am glad to hear it…" Fitz looked out of the window onto the street below, for the first time in a long time he felt hopeful and happy for the future. "Has she told you about wanting to go sea-bathing?"

Louisa laughed, "aye, she wondered if I could recommend a modiste who would make her a bathing suit, and I advised that she would need to consult with you first before commissioning such a piece!" Fitz laughed again, as she continued to read the letter, searching through Georgiana's scrawl for any piece of interest. "I have no idea where she has chosen to write this letter, but some of this is completely indecipherable."

"Really?" His interest was piqued, away from his dreamy reverie of Jemima Godwin in her pale pink muslin gown with flowers in her hair and a silk gloved hand in his. "Pass me the letter, I can usually deduce her meaning…"

He reached over for the letter, but Louisa look up at him ashen-faced, "Fitz… I cannot…"

"Louisa? What is it?"

She slumped on the settee, placed her head in her hands, the letter scrunched up, "Fitzwilliam, this is the worst news."

"What? A little sea-bathing is surely permissible," he took a seat next to her, trying to assuage her fears with humour as was often his way. "The season is quite over in Ramsgate; Georgiana will not have done anything too scandalous."

Louisa looked up at him, "Fitz. The letter is all of a concern for you, that your fortune is lost, and you are on your way to debtors' prison. She asks that I care for you and visit you there."

He looked confused, "I'm sorry, I do not understand your meaning."

"Georgiana writes that her dear friend Georgie arrived in the night with an urgent message from her dearest brother, explaining the situation above…"

_"Georgie?"_ The colour drained from Fitz's face, "George Wickham has been to Ramsgate? But what can be his reason? I saw him not but a few weeks ago and he was -"

" – he has taken Georgiana."

Fitz was momentarily speechless, it was as if every ounce of blood had drained from his body and he instantly felt lightheaded. "Taken her where?" The words tumbled out of him, he could not think, could not process what was happening.

"She writes 'dear Georgie has a banker friend in London who says that my fortune and the estates can be transferred to me if I am wed. It sounds very complicated, but we are travelling directly to London so that I can see my brother and reassure him of my willingness, and then onwards to Gretna Green where we are to be married…"

"Married to George Wickham?"

Louisa held out the paper, "this cannot be Fitz, he will not marry her, he will ruin her…let me get the carriage ready… where will they be now? This letter is dated two days ago. They should have been in London by now…" her voice was frantic, rushed, as she calculated in her head where the devil Wickham had absconded to with her friend. "Templeton, ready the carriage at once!" She shouted into the hallway, as the two footmen jumped to attention and the butler took his order and disappeared to fulfil his orders.

"He will have taken her straight to Gretna, they will be heading North now," Fitz was pacing up and down the drawing room now, his brow furrowed, his expression one of concentration. "I will need to try and cut them off before they – oh god, Louisa, what have I done? How will I resolve this?"

"Fitz," she stood in front of him, looking up at him with watery eyes. "This is my fault, all of this."

"How can that be, Louisa?"

She took a deep breath, took his hand in hers, "I had a friend. She was a most beloved friend to me, we had known each other from our days in the nursery and she was as devoted to me as I to her. A year ago she was charmed by a young gentleman, even though she was not generally of the disposition to accept flattery from a gentleman not of her acquaintance." Louisa felt herself struggle with the words, it felt too soon to betray this secret, but it was necessary because Fitz needed to know the tricks of his enemy. "But this gentleman had words that fell like quicksilver, and before she knew it, my dearest Flora was under his spell. She had a considerable fortune of her own, and an income that allowed her to entertain him, and he… he borrowed substantial amounts of money from her with no intention to repay. I warned her, but she was oblivious to his deceit." Fitz held her hands tightly now as the words fell out of her, the distress evident on her face. "He took advantage of her, Fitzwilliam, in the most basest way possible, with no intention of making it honourable, and he didn't care who knew. She was ruined completely."

"Completely? You mean…" He visibly blanched.

"She could not face the shame, Fitz," he pulled her into a firm embrace, "my darling Flora, who I loved like a sister…she… she threw herself and the babe in her belly into the river."

"Flora died?"

"She would rather face the unholy torment of purgatory than the disgrace," Louisa composed herself. As much as she missed Flora, this was not the primary issue here. She needed to prevent another lady from suffering the same fate. "The gentleman in question was George Wickham, Fitz."

He had already known the name she was going to say.

"The carriage is ready, madame," Templeton announced with casual solemnity.

"Mrs Hurst, you should stay here," Fitz said, taking his hat and outdoor jacket from the butler.

"Maybe I should, Mr Darcy," she said firmly, "but I will not. Templeton, when my husband returns from the club, please tell him that I am on a vital errand for Mr Darcy. He will understand."

The butler raised an eyebrow but nodded. He was still unsure of this new mistress as she disappeared out of the door with the handsome gentleman from Derbyshire.

Inside the carriage, Louisa Hurst and Fitzwilliam Darcy found themselves rocked back and forth, holding hands for comfort, terrified of what misfortunes lay ahead.


	10. 1808 - Travellers Rest

The Darcy carriage was comfortable, even if they had been travelling for hours and hours. Georgiana wondered why it was taking so long for them to reach the house on Grosvenor Square, where she could ask Mrs Boyle to prepare something warm, she had had her fill of inn food and longed to sit in the dining room with a bowl of white soup, and maybe some Prince of Wales biscuits. Yes, that is what she would ask for. She could then take the leftovers to Fitz in the… oh no, oh no, how horrible… the thought of her honourable and kind brother trapped behind the walls of the debtors' prison made her feel tremendously sad. He was her rock and her fortitude, and if she had to marry George Wickham to save Fitzwilliam, then she would. Papa would be proud of her for doing this, taking it upon herself to be the saviour of Pemberley and the Darcy name. She didn't love George, of course, well not as a husband – he was far too old and, now she had spent more time in his company, he was not as amenable as she had once thought.

As much as she enjoyed travelling, the three-day journey was beginning to take its toll on her good nature, especially as George's temper was erratic and his usual easy-going personality was beginning to fray. She was beginning to be of the opinion that maybe Fitz was correct in removing him from their society. He looked over at her, his usually well-groomed hair was mussed, and whilst he must have shaved at the coaching inn overnight, he had obviously missed parts which stood out as dark islands on his face. He didn't look as handsome as he appeared in the drawing rooms of London, or in the gardens at Pemberley, in fact, he looked most disagreeable all rumpled in the coach, his blue jacket looking slightly shabby, his cravat roughly fastened, and an angry, sharp look on his face as he stared outside refusing to look at her. She leaned over to glance out of the window, but he moved sharply towards her, preventing her from raising the blind to look outside.

"I _will_ look outside, George," she said, snatching her arm away from his grasp.

"Georgiana, I forbid it!"

"You cannot forbid me anything, George, you forget your place!"

"Forget my place? A fine way to speak to your betrothed, Miss Darcy."

"That depends on what my brother says."

"Pfft," he rankled, "Darcy would do anything to save his fortune and his precious name."

"That is because my brother knows that some things are worth the sacrifice. You wouldn't know sacrifice, George, Fitzwilliam has protected you your whole life and you never saw it… Indeed, I don't even know if I saw it myself until this moment."

Georgiana had heard the rumours of George Wickham's behaviour, but she had not believed him capable of such things. Until now. It was as if the entire personality that she knew was a complete façade, and now she was trapped in the carriage with him, trapped in the possibility of marriage with him.

"What a pleasant thought, indeed, wife, for you to believe that your brother is capable of such heroics!"

"I am not your wife, Mr Wickham."

"Not yet," he said with a sneer.

Georgiana could feel the hot fury building within her, and she snatched back the blind. It was near dusk now, but she could not see the familiar and expected outline of London in the distance, instead, there were just fields.

"Wickham, where are we? This is not the road to London."

He was silent, a hideous smile on his face. Georgiana rose to her feet and threw herself across the carriage, "I demand you tell me where we are going! Right now!"

He grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her back onto the seat, "we are going where I decide, dearest Georgiana," he ran a finger down her cheek and over her neck, "what a pretty thing you have you grown into. I should wait until after the vows have been uttered from your sweet little mouth, but why when you are such a tight little bud waiting to blossom."

All she could smell was the unwashed scent of him, the faint hint of pomade still lingering on his hair, the stench of tobacco on his breath. Underneath her fingertips, she could feel the velvet jacquard of the seat, and she focused her attention on that as he hovered over her, not wanting to avert her eyes from him in case he saw it as a momentary minute of weakness. He stood up, banged on the roof for the driver's attention, and the carriage came to a halt. She heard Fielding jump down from his position and knock on the door, before opening it.

"Is everything alright, Miss Darcy?"

She had known Fielding all of her life, surely, he would know that she was in danger, surely he would sense it from her. The driver looked over at Wickham who was still stood over Miss Darcy, she looked petrified.

"Georgiana?"

"Fielding," Wickham said, "I find that maybe Ross and yourself should take a stroll. The air is so delightful at this time of the evening."

The Darcy's driver looked over at his mistress, he could see her shaking her head ever so slightly, her eyes wide.

"I don't think we should do that, Mr Wickham, I think it would be best if we continued north."

"North? You are taking me straight to Scotland, aren't you?" Georgiana looked up at Wickham, she was scared, aye, but she was not going to be forced into anything. "How dare you have the presumption!"

"Miss Darcy, allow me to…"

At this moment, George reached into his overcoat, his eyes still locked on Fielding and pulled out his pistol, brandishing it towards the older gentleman. "Take Ross, Fielding, and leave."

"I will do nothing of the kind, Wickham. What are you planning on doing here?"

"Taking what is rightfully mine," he leered down at Georgiana, "now go or I will shoot you both and leave you dead in a ditch. Think of the face of your pretty wife when I tell how you died, how your son died crying out for her, all at the hands of a highwayman."

"She would never believe you, Wickham, you will not get away with this," Georgiana's voice was low, trying to disguise her fear.

"That's the issue, isn't it, dear G… I think you'll find that I already have."

Georgiana knew that this was a fight she would be unable to win, at least not without either servant getting hurt, and she would not allow them to sacrifice anything for her. She looked at Fielding and nodded, he shook his head, powerless to do anything, but she nodded again, trying to tell him that it was alright, that it would be alright.

"Go, man!" Wickham pointed the gun directly in Fielding's face. He took a long hard look at Miss Darcy, fearing he would never be able to remove the sight of her face from his mind. Ross, his son, was the same age and the children had played together, and now as they walked away from the carriage, stood in the middle of the empty road on this quiet, still night, he prayed that Georgiana and her brother would forgive him.

Fully alone now she was aware of her own breathing, listening out for the rumble of another traveller on the road upon whom she could call for help.

There was never any threat to the family name was there? Fitzwilliam is not in debtors' prison at all, is he?"

Georgiana didn't know what had made Wickham despise them so much, because surely this was a grandiose fabrication, put into play over the course of weeks.

"Not that I'm aware, dearest," he smiled, his face close to hers as he pulled at her dress.

"And Mrs Younge, who was so eager for me to come away with you… I suppose you tricked her too."

"Tricked her? I _paid _her. She has always been working firstly for me, she rates my coin above any loyalty she may have toward the Darcys.

"In your employ this whole time…" she should have realised. Foolish Georgiana, so foolish.

"Why, of course," he took a seat next to her, "now, Mrs Wickham…"

"I am _not_ Mrs Wickham, I am Miss Darcy."

"You are _mine,_ Georgiana. You, your thirty thousand pounds, and the look on Darcy's face when he realises that he has lost and has to welcome me to Pemberley as a brother."

"Fitzwilliam will never welcome you to Pemberley again. Even if you insist I marry you I would rather live my life alone than have you pollute the shades of my home with your lies and deception."

"Oh dear, I am so bad, aren't I? But look how eager you were to please Fitzwilliam. Look how thrilled you were to be of some use. Poor Georgiana Darcy… believing everything she is ever told."

"You were as dear to me as Fitz himself," she spat out, "I trusted you like a brother."

"Yes," he said as his hand reached up to her thigh, "and now you will love me as a wife."

Georgiana closed her eyes and focused on what she could. The feel of her stocking on her toes, the soft cotton of her scarf, the beaded tassel on the cushion next to her. She focused on anything she could, drawing pictures in her head with the textures because if she opened her eyes it would all become real.


	11. 1808 - Road to Gretna

It was dark. Too dark for the driver to continue if safety were of prime concern, but for Fitz and Louisa their own safety paled, they were all of the concern for Georgiana and where she could be, being spirited across the country. They had barely spoken in the last hour, both lost in their thoughts as the carriage thundered onward, jolting and bumping over the road. Louisa did not want to ask her friend what they would do if… she didn't even want to think of what might have transpired between the scoundrel Wickham and the dear sweet Georgiana, but whatever had happened she would be there to love and support both of the Darcys in any way that she could.

"Do you hold me responsible for this, Fitz?" She uttered under her breath, "should I have told you how far Wickham had fallen?"

Fitz's features were taut, his expression pulled into what could be a permanent frown. The colour that had drained from him earlier had not returned and she was certain that he would now forever look haunted in some way that she would never be able to explain.

"Louisa, it is I who should be apologising to you," his voice was low and croaky, "I knew the level of Wickham's depravity and sought to keep it hidden. I owe not only an apology to you, but to every woman of our acquaintance."

"Fitz, don't think like that. You were not to know that he would do this…with your own sister."

"Maybe not," he averted his eyes from hers, "but his villainy knows no ends. Look at what happened to poor Flora. She would have been more on her guard with him if she had known what he was capable of."

"You cannot blame yourself for Flora, but I should have made you more aware of this disgrace. I knew that something was wrong at Pemberley. He was plotting something then, I am convinced of it."

Fitzwilliam leaned over, his head dropped between his knees as he ran his hands through his hair. It was out of pure frustration, wondering what on earth he was going to do next, hoping that there would be a clear path out of this mess. She reached over and placed her hand on his.

"We will reconcile this, Fitz," her voice was soothing, as soft as a new mother nursing her infant, "whatever we find, however we find it. George Wickham will not be the victor."

A deep sigh escaped from his body, "thank you for this."

"You always think that you have to do things alone, but you do not."

"Aye," he sat up straight, "a man is lucky to have a woman like you for a friend."

"A woman like me knows that a man like you is oft in need of a friend."

"Is friends all that we are, Louisa?"

It was a pointed question, and he was asking her directly far too late.

"Fitzwilliam, if I could have taken our friendship and transformed us into into the happiest people in England, then I would have already done it. The truth is…" she bit her tongue, not sure of what she could say, because what she was about to say, "are you certain that we are friends above all else, Fitz?"

"Of course. Louisa, what is the matter?"

She took a sharp intake of breath, "you see, Fitz, I am not totally enamoured with the thought of taking a husband, for if I were then I would have wholeheartedly pursued you in a manner more virulent than that of my sister."

"Your sister makes no secret of her desire to be the next mistress of Pemberley, although she has made no allies amongst my household," the mood had lightened slightly, even though they both knew it was only temporary.

"Fitz," the words hung in her mouth, she had trusted no other with this secret. "As much as I am happy to be the wife of a fairly kind if louche husband, I would much rather…" she paused again, trying to find the right words "I would much rather have been able to take a _wife_ of my own instead."

He pulled his hand back from hers, placed them on his knees and looked out of the window. She felt as if her heart had dropped through the bottom of her stomach and she averted her gaze, feeling ashamed and embarrassed, as almost as if the world was collapsing on top of her.

"Fitz? Please say something…"

He glanced up, she could see the tip of his hat, the turn of his countenance, even in the semi-darkness of the carriage.

"Flora was more than a friend to you, wasn't she?"

Louisa nodded, even now the loss of Flora Montgomery caused tears to prick at her eyes as she remembered her laughter, her smile. Inadvertently the tears began to escape down her face, as she thought about everything that had been lost because of one cruel, unfeeling man. Fitz caught it, moved across the coach, the tall bulk of him clumsy in the darkness, but he wrapped his arm around her and held her as she sobbed.

"I have never told anyone, Fitz. I never will again," she said through tears, "but now you understand why I could never have been your wife, even though we would have the greatest of times together."

"We would have."

"Maybe, but you deserve more than that. You deserve a great love, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and not a marriage of convenience to someone you tolerate."

"I think I have found my great love," he said, "thanks to you."

"Miss Godwin?"

"Yes, I think so. The lady is perfection itself, I doubt I would find a more suitable bride."

Louisa smiled softly up at him, but there was hesitation in it because she was holding back from what she truly wanted to say, "you have to be completely sure, because love tests you in so many ways. You have to know that the woman you love is up to the challenges of married life because it's forever. You have to choose someone who is your equal – and I'm not talking about status either, although that is as good a place to start as any."

"I know," he soothed. "Is this why you chose the elderly nobleman with a vast fortune?"

"I chose a well-born gentleman who already had an heir. Mr Hurst is generous and he asks nothing of me, except to look delightful and provide entertainment and amusement. If you think about it, it's the perfect match for me."

"I hate knowing that you have settled for a less than worthy match, Louisa."

"I haven't."

He could see her visage clearly now in the moonlight, could see her face still streaked with tears. Fitz had never seen Louisa Bingley cry, Caroline cried all the time, like a spoiled child, stamping her feet when things didn't go her way. Her behaviour had tempered, but not in any kind of way that would have persuaded him to marry her. But Louisa. He could have loved her, by god. Dabbing at her face with his cotton handkerchief, he kissed the top of her head softly. "Thank you for trusting me," he whispered, as they sat there as the carriage rocked along, "I shall keep your secret as long as you require me to."

"I know."

They sat there silently, each wondering what lay ahead for them. Georgiana had been alone with Wickham now for three days, the worst-case scenario for Darcy was that Wickham had convinced her to elope with him, that she was now happily ensconced in the marital bed with George Wickham as her husband, for if she had chosen him willingly, even based on a deception, then there would be naught he could do. Darcy knew that he may have even forced himself on her, and it made him recoil even at the thought of it. He was well aware of Wickham's predisposition for virginal girls, but he never thought… No, he could not think about it. They must be getting closer. He would know soon enough, and then he would make everything right, because he was Fitzwilliam Darcy, and it was his responsibility to do so. That was what he did.

* * *

The moonlight hit the outline of him. Stood there with his shirt ripped, his bare chest exposed, gazing out onto the bleak, empty land, the scent of cigar smoke sharp against the spring evening. Cut grass. She lay there like a discarded ragdoll, scared to move or even breathe, making herself as small as she could. He dismounted from the carriage, closing the door behind him, and she moved quickly, pulling her cape around her. Her new bonnet lay beaten and battered on the floor, the ostrich feather missing, torn from its mount, the lace trim on her petticoat ripped, her stockings rumpled. She pulled them up quickly, quietly fastening the ribbon, before standing with one shoe missing. Reaching her hair, she tried to make herself presentable, even though the curls and ribbons trimmed earlier that day by the maid at the coaching inn were pulled out and in disarray. Smoothing her chemise, she attempted to lace her stays, but her fingers fumbled – she had never done this alone before – and she sank back on the seat, pulling the torn dress over her shoulders and closing it as best she could.

There was pain, but it was nothing she felt physically, because even though there were welts on her wrists and marks on her breast, she had taken herself away and to another place, she saw the face of her beloved mother, a familiar sight etched into her memory since she was small the picture a permanent resident in her rooms at Pemberley. She had focused on the blackness, imagining the smiling woman with features like her own, and suddenly she was comforted held in a blanket of love and warmth. It was cold now in the carriage, and she pulled the cloak around her tighter still. Then the noise of another traveller on the road, a rumble, she didn't know whether to hide or shout, demand attention and rescue, but when she tried to say anything she felt the words stuck in her throat, and so she hid in the corner, cowering like a frightened pup, trying to make herself invisible.

There were shouts outside. A kerfuffle, a yell, the voice of a woman. Familiar, maybe? The door opened and she peeked out of the hood.

"Georgiana?"

Relief. Rescue.

"Fitzwilliam!"

She was pulled out of the carriage quickly, a heavy fur-lined cloak enveloping her. The pain was felt now, every part of her body seemed to be on fire even as he lifted her, carrying her to another coach, placing her inside where Louisa held her close.

"Take heed, Fitz," Louisa said in hushed tones.

"I will," he said, glancing at Georgiana, who was smaller than he had ever seen her.

And then there was shouting and she looked to see her brother with his hands on Wickham if he might kill him. Inside her, there was a rush of anger and fire.

"Do not give him the satisfaction, Fitzwilliam," she screamed from the carriage, "he would die happy knowing you would get the noose."

Wickham, back up against the door of the carriage, Darcy's arm under his neck, unable to breathe, but able to sneer, felt the hold relax, "aye, it would be a happy day, indeed, Fitzwilliam, but would you murder your brother."

"You are no brother to me," he hissed, turning on his heel, catching his sister's frightened face.

George Wickham was never one to walk away from a fight, "I will be when your sister is my bride! For who would want her now?"

Quick as a flash, Fitzwilliam turned again, marched to his tormenter and placed the blade directly at his gullet.

"I would never allow her to marry you, you worthless dog." His eyes flashed black, his voice rumbled like oncoming thunder, "and if you so much as breathe a word of this, I guarantee that you will face the consequences of your own selfish actions."

"And if there is a bastard in her belly?" He tried to grin, but Fitz pressed harder, "where will the good name of Darcy get her then?"

"You are lying."

The blade dropped. Wickham had known Fitzwilliam Darcy for too long to have not figured how to thoroughly rankle him, and he was going to take advantage as best he could.

"Why don't you ask her yourself… She reminded me of that winsome wench from Egypt. What was her name? Rosa… Yes, luscious little Rosa who jerked and shifted and…you remember what she was like, Fitz…"

Fitz took a breath and turned to walked away, he wanted to get Georgiana and Louisa as far away as he possibly as he could.

"Is that it, Darce? Is that all the honour of your sister is worth? Why, if I had known, I would have had her when she was a riper fruit to pluck!"

Fitz stopped and landed a hard, heavy punch on Wickham's jaw. The smile stayed on his face momentarily before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid down the door of the carriage, out cold.

Fitzwilliam, Georgiana and Louisa set off again into the night, Georgiana tucked under her brother's arm as he pulled her in close and told her that everything would be alright.


	12. 1911 - Millicent

It was a crisp Autumn day, the crunch of leaves underfoot as the shooting party disembarked from the carriages and dismounted from horses. Christopher Delancey had travelled to Pemberley on the late train the evening before, wanting to spend time with Gig and Bertie, the Darcy brothers who were spending enough time in town to cause a furore amongst the eligible women of their set. Gig – the family nickname for George, the eldest – was of a similar height to himself, both of them inheriting a lofty stature from their great-grandfather Fitzwilliam, whilst Bertie was a head shorter, but definitely the most handsome of the three. The Three Musketeers – Kit, Gig and Bertie – the Darcy boys. Kit didn't have the name, of course, but you only had to look at him to know that he was a Darcy. He even had the grey eyes, the same as his mother's. The main difference between Kit and his Darcy cousins was that he did not have the fortune or any hope of it. His father was a minor aristocrat, living on an allowance pulled from a holding of land in Lancashire. It was barely enough to keep the family in their country estate, Lancingham Park, which was half shuttered for the majority of the year.

"How go you there, cousin," Millicent shouted, tramping over to him with a shotgun in her hand, "I heard that you had arrived. Your journey was pleasant, I trust?"

Kit greeted his cousin with a kiss on the cheek, "as pleasant as the journey to Derbyshire can be, I suppose," he sniffed, "although all the better for seeing you here. You are looking remarkably divine."

"Oh, there is no need to flatter me, darling, you know I am not in the habit of angling for compliments. Dearest Cecily demanded your attention, I hope you called into the house to see her."

"I was, but Staughton sent me straight here with no chance to change," he gestured to his crumpled suit, and lack of shooting attire. "Although he sent my cases and valet to the house, so I'm rather at a loss."

Millicent smiled as she checked her gun, before handing it to her loader, Seb. She liked Kit, he was like another brother.

"What a devil, he is!" Gig shouted, throwing his cigarette to the ground and striding over with a firm handshake and an embrace. "Good God, man, you look positively white!" His voice lowered as the two men moved away from the main party. "Too many late evenings and long nights with Miss Bertram, I guess."

Kit laughed, "Miss Bertram is a delightful diversion, but how are you, Gig? When will you next be at the club? Hargreaves is running riot with all of my money, I would much rather lose to you."

"I would much rather you win for once!" He reached for a cup of hot wine, passing one to Kit. "Are you going to make an offer to Miss Bertram?"

He shook his head, "she comes with absolutely nothing. As much as I would wish it, I simply cannot afford to marry her."

Gig pulled out another cigarette and lit it, "damn shame, Kit. She is a lovely girl," he took a long, tight-lipped drag, pondering, "what about Penny? Has Aunt Agatha not pushed you in that direction yet?"

"Your sister? Christ, no," he guffawed, "your sister is practically my sister, which makes any thought of… _relations_… with her practically incestuous in my mind."

"Quite rightly too, although," he pulled him in tight, "the thought of being a brother to you is better than the thought of any of these weak-chinned heirs Agatha has found."

"I heard the Fitzwilliams were in the running for her too."

"Yes," Gig rolled his eyes, "and who could bear that dredge of sops sullying our family line."

"Fitzwilliams, Darcys, Delanceys… we're all one and the same. It makes no difference if it is I or a Fitzwilliam who marries Penny, she will be furiously disappointed with whomever she gets landed with."

"Penny is disappointed that she has to marry at all," Gig laughed, "but better that than ending up like Agatha, I swear to God her only reason for living is to torment me."

"I heard she had put a kibosh on your fraternisations with Emily Chartwell."

"Ahhhh, Emily Chartwell," he sighed, "she doth make me swell."

Gig could have fallen long and hard for Emily Chartwell, but her family connections were dubious, particularly the recent divorce of her older brother, and the hasty remarriage of her father to a woman half his age after less than a year of mourning for his dead wife. As much as he could have loved her, and her blue eyes, and the wiggle of her hip, and the small beauty spot on her left breast, he knew he could never marry her. But the thought of her, well he could soothe a long lonely night with the thought of her.

"George Darcy!" Millicent chastised, "I hope you are behaving in a gentleman-like manner."

Bertie, coming up late, looking dishevelled and half-dressed, chipped in "I bloody well doubt it."

"Albert!" Kit saluted, as Bertie tripped over a part-hidden root of a tree, fumbling with his collar.

"Kit! How are you, old chap? Excellent, excellent," he said, without waiting for a response, distracted, "Grandmama requests you join her in the Saloon."

"For what?"

"I don't know… for tea?"

"It is too early for tea, Bertie," Millicent said, "you are being summoned, Kit darling. I've already had my orders, you're next! I have no idea how Gig and Bertie get away with receiving theirs."

"Who me?" Gig exclaimed with false modesty, "I cannot help it if I am the apple of grandmama's eye."

"Yes," his sister grinned, "although I doubt how long this will last after you take a bride."

There was silence between the four cousins as they each pondered their fates. Both Gig and Kit were in line to inherit estates, although the Darcy estates were far more impressive than the shabby and uncared for Lancingham Park. Gig would be George, Duke of Derbyshire, and Kit would be Christopher, Earl of Balcarres. Bertie study law and become a barrister, maybe even an important one like Uncle Francis – it was either that or the Church for second sons, and Albert was in no mind to become a Reverend. All Millicent had to do was marry, and marry well, and if she managed to make a love match of it, then that was an additional benefit.

The rest of the shooting party were gathered; hustling, bustling and preparing and waiting for Edward, who was thoroughly enjoying having all three of his children back at Pemberley to distract both his wife and his mother. He had thought that having grown up children would have made his life run more smoothly and without incessant questioning, but rather than schooling and education, there were merely different questions to answer. The boys had completed their studies at Brasenose and Millicent was due to be presented at the start of the following season. As he began the walk into Purselow Wood, he thought of how he was so terribly lucky to have such a wonderful family. All was well.


	13. 1912 - Millicent

St James' Palace was always a spectacle at this time of year. Coaches lined up outside as the parade of aristocratic daughters arrived to be presented to the King and Queen. Millicent Darcy, the only daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire, found that she was primped and preened and laced into the tightest corset she had ever worn. She could already feel the welts developing on her hips, and she seriously wondered how she would manage to last for the full programme of events planned for the evening. Firstly there would be general introductions, lots of them, so many faces, so many names that she was required to remember; and then dancing and entertainments, being whirled about the dancefloor by some idiotic earl's son with a large fortune and little intelligence, and then, finally, actually being presented to the Queen, who seemed disinterested by the whole thing, decorated head to foot in diamonds, silver thread and a permanently disappointed expression. Queen Mary was known to be icy-cold, even Millicent's papa had commented on Her Majesty's frosty reception, but she thought that the Royal lady was probably bored having to attend such events when she would rather be at home. She poked a finger into her hair to itch the scratch on her scalp. Teetering on top of the heavily brushed, twisted and curled design was the Lady Anne tiara –a heavy, sparkling mess of sapphires and diamonds - the balance of which was precarious upon her head. It was relatively new – her mother taking inherited heirlooms and making something modern as she often did, much to the chagrin of the older members of the family who viewed it as almost sacrilegious. Millicent could see how her mother wanted the Darcys to move with the times, even if her feet were still firmly planted in the virtues of matrimony and motherhood. Cecily had chosen the dress too, a heavily beaded shift dress in a new design, which required the tiny waist and three weeks of minuscule portions of food. There had been no cake at Pemberley for the last month either, much to Millicent's chagrin.

Across from her in the carriage sat Aunt Agatha, the dowager Countess of Alleyne, whose husband had been thirty years older and died within a year of the wedding, leaving her with only her title and the five hundred pounds a year he had left her. It had resulted in a move back to Darcy estates and Agatha lived in the Dower House in Kympton with her mother, Clementine, something neither woman took delight in. She batted Millicent's hand away with an ivory-handled fan, hitting her firmly on the knuckles.

"Really Aunt, is there a need for that?" It had hurt, even through her silk gloves.

"Yes," she said in a clipped tone. "An obvious need."

"An obvious need?"

"I am referring, of course, to your rebellious antics. You know you are making your mother ill," Agatha's voice took on the haughty quality that it so often did when she was reprimanding one or other of her relations. "It is very unbecoming for a Darcy to be involved in such things, Millicent."

"It is very unbecoming for the women of our society to ignore the fact that the world is changing around us, Aunt. Mama may be displeased right now, but the fight for the female vote is something that, as women, we should all be concerned with."

Agatha folded her arms against the noise, looking with disinterest out of the window, "you should be most concerned about finding yourself a husband. Are you even considering marriage?"

Millicent crossed her arms and looked out of the window, refusing to acknowledge her aunt's question, because the youngest Darcy lady was most definitely not considering marriage at all, and at near twenty-two, she should most definitely have been. It was not the custom for Darcy women to marry so late. When you discounted Georgiana who didn't marry until she was almost twenty-six, nearly every woman in recent history was married well in advance of their twentieth birthday, even Christina – Agatha's acidic younger sister – managed to ensnare Joshua Delancey, the oldest son of the Earl of Balcarres, within a year of her debutante ball at seventeen and now had a veritable cricket team of children running about the family seat, Lancingham Park. But here was Millicent, firmly of the belief that a Darcy woman did not need a husband to maintain her position or fortune – in fact, historically, she knew that women were much more powerful without them.

Agatha pursed her lips, waiting for a response, as the noise outside grew louder and the carriage nearly reached the front of the queue, where liveried footmen in powdered wigs waited to help the ladies alight. She had been the sponsor for a number for young women in previous years, taking them to the palace and presenting them, but it had been the 'coming out' of Millicent that had been the talk of Pemberley for the last few years. Usually there was a whole gaggle of Darcy girls with gowns like meringues and pretty posies in their hair – Agatha remembered very clearly being one herself, all pushing and shoving with her sisters and cousins to be the centre of attention – but this generation was sparse of women, although there was an abundance of Darcy descended men all vying for the attention of delicious debutantes across town. The Dowager Countess observed her niece closely; the willowy, blonde, blue-eyed girl was so unlike any of the Darcys at all that, on her birth, Christina tried to convince them all that the newborn baby was a foundling, so different was her appearance from the usual dark-haired, dark-eyed, sharp-chinned Darcy babies. But it was there if you studied her – the little frown that appeared when she was confused, or angry, or upset, that was all Darcy - and the eyes, despite their colouring, were still very much the same as Agatha's own.

"I admire your spirit," she said, reaching over to straighten the tiara, "Darcy women are always headstrong, young girls – it's in our blood, I think, but please, Millicent, do not overlook some lovely chap who could make you very happy because you are too obstinate to see it. It is a risk that you are taking, and you do not want to end up with dregs of the pot because you were too busy playing croquet."

Millicent glanced over at her Aunt, she was still relatively young – her hair was still luscious and dark, and she was wearing the Alleyne tiara, full of emeralds and diamonds. It would be returned to the family's house in Eton Square the following day, back to Malcolm Hillary, her late husband's eldest son and the current Earl of Alleyne. His oldest son, Philip, had been at the last shooting party at Pemberley - touted as a possible suitor, along with a whole cascade of soft-nosed, Eton educated boys who knew what to say and what to wear to impress the young and alluring Lady Darcy of Pemberley.

"The Fitzwilliam boy will be here tonight."

"Which one, Aunt? There are so many of them… Rupert, David, Henry… I lose track of the Fitzwilliams."

"Rupert. The oldest," Agatha said, "he is a good fit for you – a marriage with Rupert would mean that you would be the Countess of Matlock one day, if you desired it, of course."

"Rupert Fitzwilliam can hardly hold a gun, let alone shoot one. Besides which, it would mean I would match you in rank, how would you possibly stand it."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, "you may irk yourself at the thought of position, Millicent, but you forget the freedoms that your birth allows you. I doubt the magistrate would have been so lenient last year if your father hadn't spoken on your behalf."

"I am aware of it, Aunt. The very reason I protest so much is due to my complete abhorrence of the social inequality of which you speak. Why should normal women…working women… be sent to Holloway, lose their children, their livelihoods… whilst I… I get returned to Pemberley with nothing more than a slap on the wrists for committing the same crime."

"You would do more for those women if you gave them jobs to do and paid them for their work. That is the way it should be. It is perfectly understandable why the Doctor's daughter from Manchester has decided to take up arms in this unconsidered fight, but even she has fled to France due to the threat of imprisonment. But you, Millicent… you are Lady Darcy, the daughter of one of the richest men in the county - "

"- simply by the luck of my birth, Aunt, and the misfortune of your older brother."

"There is no need to speak of Charles."

"I think there is," she continued. "If Charles had not died in the accident, then I would be the daughter of the second son. I wouldn't be Lady Darcy at all. Maybe I would be the daughter of a lawyer or a clergyman. There would certainly not be this pressure to marry someone for their name or their title."

"There also would not be the jewels and dresses and perfumes of which you are so fond, either, and I very much doubt that a lawyer father would be able to continually pay for you to be bailed."

"I wish he wouldn't pay for me to be bailed. I would rather go to Newgate and take the punishment than being packed off to Pemberley like a piece of furniture."

Millicent jutted out her chin in defiance, Agatha recognised it because she did the same thing.

"I understand the fashion for suffrage and enfranchisement, but there is much to be said for peaceful protest, it does not always do us well to scream and shout for what we desire. Men are simple creatures and it is often easier to persuade them with honey rather than vinegar. Sometimes our interests are best served by remaining quiet."

"Remaining quiet, and being a dutiful, loyal wife? The two are not mutually exclusive, Aunt Agatha."

The coach jostled them forward, Agatha leaned forward to look out of the window. She was furious, but she wasn't going to let her niece see it. The girl was fair and tall, looking very much like one of their Wyndham cousins, the difference being that Francesca, Lucinda and Henrietta were all either engaged or married, whilst Millicent – who knew them all from St Margaret's School in Bushey – was neither, and with no serious prospects. All she wanted was for the girl to make an advantageous match – all of the dramatics and politics could follow afterwards – Millicent was already getting quite a reputation as a troublemaker, and Agatha was eager to see her married, or at least engaged, before this knowledge spread, but Millicent's exploits were becoming increasingly more violent, more unable to be hidden. One of the boys fit for her hand had been the eldest son of the MP, Viscount Ribble. Well-educated and decidedly clever, Thomas Dungarry was frightfully handsome, and Agatha had believed that he would have made a wonderful husband to her own brother's well-educated and decidedly clever daughter, but all chance of this had been scuppered the previous summer when there had been a fire at the Dungarry family lodge, destroying the property beyond repair and causing great damage to the estate. Millicent had never been arrested for the crime, but both the Darcys and the Dungarrys knew that she had been responsible for it and the possibility of Thomas Dungarry's hand in marriage was lost forever. So, Agatha had taken it upon herself to have Millicent married before the end of the season if only she could get her to behave.

"Once you find a loyal husband, Millicent, you can entertain yourself however you wish. But one cannot overlook the security that comes from having someone who is happy that you are home. "

The coach pulled up, Millicent fixed her tiara, checking her reflection in the small pocket mirror in her embroidered bag, she stood to alight.

"Aunt, you know I value your opinion," she said stepping out of the carriage, "and I appreciate your guidance, but if I were only looking for the security of having someone happy to see me home then I would simply buy myself a Labrador."


	14. 1808 - Back to Pemberley

The courtyard below was busy, a whole village of people shunting and moving, boots echoing on the stone floor, the hum and chatter of servants going about their work, the occasional shout and clatter as something was dropped, and then the rush to pick it up and complete the work as quickly as possible. Staughton stormed out of the stone parlour hidden under the cloisters, and into the group of workmen who were laughing and joking.

"Is there any reason why you are gadding about and not completing your work, gentlemen?"

"Beg pardon, Mr Staughton, sir, we were just wondering when the master was home?"

The Darcy butler raised an eyebrow, "And what business is it to you? Is there some pressing social engagement that you wish to invite him to?"

"I don't know if I only speak for myself," said the workman, "but we are wondering as…well, with Miss Georgiana being here, then usually Mr Darcy is back at home more frequent like."

Staughton ruffled, "that is not a concern of yours, Harry Simms. Mr Darcy is perfectly able to decide his own schedule, whether or not Miss Georgiana is at home."

"We heard that she came back to Pemberley with Mrs Hurst, sir."

"Is it really that important who Miss Georgiana came home with?"

Harry Simms had a reason for wanting to know if Miss Georgiana was staying at Pemberley for the rest of the summer because if she was then Mrs Younge, with all her fancy talk and flirtations, would be back at Pemberley too, and he was rather hoping that they could finish what they had started.

"No, sir, not at all," Harry agreed, "but is the young Miss Darcy alright? We were all afeared that she might have caught the sweat. Tom's eldest boy passed of it not three weeks ago," he gestured to Tom, a sallow looking man of around thirty, with sad blue eyes.

"Miss Georgiana had a simple cold, which hastened her return from Ramsgate," Staughton confirmed, "and I am sorry to hear about your boy, Mr Reeve. If you call into my parlour on your way home, I will arrange something for you and Mrs Reeve." To lose a child, well, he couldn't even imagine. "Now get on with your work and make sure it's completed before the master is home."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, and he gestured to the rest of the men to continue on with the task in hand.

Edwin Staughton surveyed the works around the courtyard, the painting of the window frames, the installation of a new central feature, the staining of the tall, studded door that shut Pemberley off from the rest of the world. It was a comprehensive scheme of improvements and he was convinced that Fitzwilliam Darcy was preparing Pemberley for a new mistress. It was about time, he thought, as he ventured into the housekeeper's office. Mrs Reynolds was sitting at the large wooden table that dominated her room, tucked away at the corner of the house, she had a commanding view out onto the lake and from here she could see all of the comings and goings.

"Have you heard the talk amongst the workmen?"

She looked up from her ledger, "what talk?"

Staughton took a seat opposite and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot, "the talk of Miss Georgiana," he gave his female counterpart a knowing look.

The evening that Mr Darcy, Mrs Hurst and Georgiana had returned to Pemberley had been in swathed in secrecy. The messenger had arrived on horseback the night before, urging both the butler and housekeeper to keep their arrival discreet. Willis, Mr Darcy's steward had ridden on ahead, arriving the afternoon before and calling a meeting between himself and the senior servants. Alexander Willis was an intelligent, well-mannered man in his mid-thirties, and had a wife and three children who lived in a cottage on the edges of the estate. He had made the move to Pemberley the year before, taking the post after working in a similar position for a minor lord in Wales. He had fitted in well with the servants in Derbyshire, although he was still at odds with the family's housekeeper in Grosvenor Square, making the job of managing the family interests a little bit harder than it ought to be.

"What has happened?"

Willis sighed, removing his hat and gloves, placing them near the fire to dry, "I am unsure."

It was true. He had not been given the details regarding the hasty return of Darcy and his sister, had only been advised to travel on in advance and prepare the way. Mrs Hurst had been there, taking charge of the situation as usual, and Willis had wondered why she had not been at home with her own husband. It had crossed his mind, albeit fleetingly, that maybe Mr Darcy and Mrs Hurst were planning on running away together, but what he knew of Fitzwilliam Darcy contradicted that. The orders were given to close the house at Ramsgate, contact the agent and arrange for Miss Darcy's personal effects to be returned to Pemberley. Willis also had the arduous task of arranging carriage for the pianoforte, again. He had asked what was to be done about Mrs Younge, who surely would still be expecting the salary for her role, but received no answer.

"Unsure? But Mr Darcy surely would have given you some inclination as to the sudden removal," Mrs Reynolds was concerned. She had known the master since he was four years old, and was fully aware that he never made hasty decisions, each one considered and contemplated.

"Aye," Willis took a seat at the oak table in Staughton's parlour, "but I was given the orders to close up the house at Ramsgate and settle the family's affairs in that town, nothing more."

"But what about Mrs Younge," Staughton asked, "has she been dismissed or is she to return to Pemberley?"

Mrs Reynolds huffed loudly enough to be heard, "well I for one hope that she does not return to Pemberley… or Mr Darcy's service at all."

"Was there an issue with Mrs Younge?" Willis asked, taking a sup of ale and a mouthful of bread.

Mrs Reynolds looked over at Mr Staughton, neither of them had liked the companion chosen for Miss Darcy. Didn't like the way she spoke to the younger male servants or the liberties she took with Georgiana's income. Mrs Reynolds always welcomed people to Pemberley, but there was something about Mrs Younge that had left her feeling uneasy, and she was certain that whatever had transpired at the seaside it was all because of that woman.

"A clash of personalities," Staughton said, ever the statesman.

"Well there should be no issue with it, Mrs Younge was no longer at the house when I arrived and Mr Edwards confirmed that she had taken her leave earlier that day."

"She has abandoned her position?" Mrs Reynolds could not believe the audacity of this woman.

"That is grave news indeed, but is Miss Georgiana alright?"

Staughton had been there when Georgiana had been born, had seen the devastation the death of her mother had caused his master, and when George Darcy had passed away and Fitzwilliam has been too wrapped up in his own grief, it had been Staughton who had comforted and held her as she sobbed. He loved her as if she was his own child, and he knew that if any harm had befallen her he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.

Willis sighed, "I'm not sure, Edwin, I wouldn't like to guess at what happened, but I do know that Miss Darcy will be remaining at Pemberley now until Christmas, excepting a visit to Waddingham, and Mr Darcy will be returning to town."

"Well, that we can deal with," Mrs Reynolds said, looking to the butler for confirmation. "I will get the maids to make up the rooms tomorrow, and…maybe I will make a batch of seed cake for Miss Darcy's arrival, Georgiana always did love a piece of my seed cake."

"That sounds like a superb idea, Mrs Reynolds," said Willis, as the housekeeper scurried off to her own rooms.

Mr Staughton eyed Willis carefully, there was information that he hadn't been told yet. The steward gestured for the older man to take a seat, and he sat opposite him.

"Edwin, do you think this was anything to do with George Wickham?"

"I suspect that this was everything to do with George Wickham."

* * *

Georgiana felt empty. It was as if someone had drained the whole colour from her life and left her in shades of black and white and grey. Nothing felt right anymore, and even the kind words of Louisa and the loving embraces of Fitzwilliam could not fill that emptiness, or make her see anything but blackness. So they had taken her home. Brought her back to Pemberley, where everything would always feel better, Fitz had said, as they had rumbled up the drive and clattered over the cobbles in the courtyard. Fitzwilliam had carried her upstairs in the night, into the small inner bedroom, and under the heavy covers of the old Tudor bed that she had slept in as a tiny child, and now he sat at the side of her, stroking her forehead and holding her hand. The lamp flickered casting shadows around the room, the fire crackled in the stone hearth, and pictures of Kings and Queens decorated the walls. This was the Knight's bedroom, for reasons she had never known, but Papa had always said it was a room for a princess; the thought of his face and the familiar smell of him had caused a wave of emotion, because how could she have ever stood before him like this? She pulled herself into her brother, holding onto him tightly, and sobbed throughout the night.

In the morning the light shining through the curtain woke her early, the house sounded silent, even though a fire had already been lit in the hearth. Fitz had stayed with her as she slept and was uncomfortably tucked up on the chair, his head kissing his chest.

"Fitzwilliam," she said, her voice scratchy in her throat.

He edged awake, jolted from sleep, opening his eyes to see Georgiana sitting up in bed. She looked pale and drawn, he moved to sit next to her.

"G, are you alright?"

She nodded, there was a wobble on her bottom lip, her eyes heavy with redness and unfulfilling sleep.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Her voice, usually bossy and demanding was small and quiet.

"Ashamed of you? He took her hand in his, "why would I be ashamed of you, dearest Georgiana?"

She didn't want to explain the humiliation that she felt, how the physical pain had subsided quickly, but that the feeling of shame remained deep within her.

"Who will want me now, Fitz? Even with my thirty thousand…What man would ever…" she stumbled over the words, soft tears rolling down her face. He grasped for her hand and held it tightly.

"This was not your fault," he said firmly.

"But Fitz," she said sadly, "in the eyes of God, I cannot deny…in the eyes of God, brother, I am his wife."

"No," his voice was gentle, his gaze unwavering, "no god would ever join you with a man who thought it right to force himself upon you, and I would never make you marry such a man."

"But what can I do, Fitz? I have brought shame on our family, this could ruin us… and any expectation we have of," the words rattled out of her, bringing her to the verge of hysterics, and he held close to him as her body shook with panic and fear.

He was scared too. They had done a quick, clean job of keeping news of her departure from Ramsgate quiet, had managed to silence the innkeepers and the tavern wenches who had seen the Darcy coach on its journey to Gretna, and Fielding would never say a word, would never tell anyone how he had seen Georgiana Darcy distraught and screaming, George Wickham lying cold on the ground, his devilish leer still emblazoned on his face. They had taken the women to a local inn, Georgiana clinging to Louisa, still half-dressed under the cape, before travelling on horseback to reprimand her assailant. But he had already gone, unharnessing a horse and vanishing into the night. God knows where he was now, but Fitz suspected that he had not worked alone, and he was determined to see justice served.

"Georgiana, we have to wait a few weeks now."

"A few weeks for what?"

He didn't know how to phrase it delicately, "to see if…"

"You mean if I am with… oh god, Fitz…I cannot, I would not, I would rather tear it out of my body than…"

"Stop, G. Listen to me, listen," he pulled her out of her panic. "We have to allow a few weeks, but other than that everything will continue as normal, no-one knows and the ones who do will never speak of it. We told Staughton that you had a cold and that your physician in Ramsgate said to return to the country for respite."

She nodded, "who else knows?"

"Louisa, Fielding, and myself. That is all."

"And George Wickham," even saying his name made her stomach turn in knots as she remembered the weight of him pressed against her, the smell of brandy on his breath.

"I promise you that I will find George Wickham," he said, "and I will make him pay for this crime."

Georgiana very rarely saw her brother's features harden to granite, but she could see the look of anger and revenge branded across his face, and she feared that he would do something reckless.

"Please don't challenge him."

"Don't challenge him? What would you have me do, G? Look what he has done to you…I will ensure that he never does this again, to anyone."

The anger turned to despair and she realised that Fitz saw this as his only way to protect and keep her safe, how he thought he had failed in doing so. She held his hands tightly wound in her own.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy, you will not risk the gallows for the sake of George Wickham. I would not have you do it…"

"But Georgiana…"

"No," she said firmly, tears running down her face, "how can you let him take you away from me? Has he not taken enough?"

There was a moment of understanding between them, and he pulled her close, hugging her tightly.

"What should I do, Georgiana… tell me, because I don't know how I can put this right."

She rose from the bed and went to the window, the house was coming to life now and below in the courtyard the servants and workers and gardeners and footmen and stablehands were all starting their days work.

"I remember when I was younger," she began, "you told me about the snakes that you saw in Egypt and how some were so big they could devour a man."

"I did," he confirmed, "are you suggesting I feed him to a snake?"

She smiled softly, "I don't even think snakes would eat him. But you said that the natives would kill the snakes by cutting off their heads."

"Aye, that was true, sometimes the heads would bite even after severed from the bodies. Georgiana, do you want me cut off his head?"

"Fitz, you are being too literal. What I mean is… Wickham has been the devil on your back since you were both little, and the one thing that he always asks of you is money. I know now that he only ever wanted my money, all of his talk of friendship and family was simply to win my confidence and trust. I was so scared when he told me you were in prison, Fitz, I did what I thought best and by doing so I fell into his trap. He is a clever man, there is no doubting it."

"And he didn't work alone…" Fitz had discovered the true identity of Miranda Tench, the former actress who had done so credible a job as Mrs Younge, and then convinced his sister to abscond into the night, "… will there be no end to his machinations?"

"Wickham knows you almost as well as I," Georgiana said, "he is fully aware of how important our family name is to you, how proud you can be. He will have wanted to force your hand, make you feel compelled to agree to the match knowing how he had… how he had…" She composed herself, "we should cut him loose. We should let him fend for himself."

"I have no intention of giving George Wickham another penny, Georgiana."

"And you mustn't," she sat back down on the bed, "that man is a poison in our lives, he tarnishes everything he touches. But we cannot continue to pay his creditors or support his lifestyle."

"Do you think that is wise? Wickham can be rather like those snakes that continue to bite after death. Do you not think he would plot an act of revenge? He is cold-hearted and damning when it comes to others, he would have no qualms about telling people of his conquest of you. Truly that would be his revenge on us."

"What revenge could he seek, Fitz? George Wickham and his rumours do not scare me, nobody would believe the word of such a man. What is he doing to do? Kidnap me again? He has ruined me, Fitz, and I have to live with that, but I will not let him destroy me or this family. In that, he will not be victorious."

"And if people talk? Society can be cruel."

"Society would have more to say if you were on trial for murder, and I would still be subjected to the same rumours and hearsay. This is the best way forward, brother, I know it in my heart."

He took her hand and kissed it softly, "you are growing up to be a remarkable woman, Georgiana Darcy."

"Thank you," she smiled, "it means ever the more coming from you, brother. You truly are the best of men."

"You are biased, I think because I am your brother…"

"I am more inclined to see the good in you, perhaps, but I am also your harshest critic when you need it."

"That you are, G."

"And I heard that very soon there will be another lady desperate to reprimand you when you are being miserable and taciturn in company."

"You have?" Fitz blushed slightly.

"Aye, a Miss Godwin had your heart in its snare, so I have heard."

He dipped his head, looked up under his unkempt hair, "you have heard correctly, although I must confirm to you that you have to approve of her before any kind of offer is made."

"Of course I must," the lightness faded and the sadness reappeared again, "but I am sure she is wonderful. I hope that she likes me too, seeing as she will be my sister."

"She is, and how could she not like you, G?"

"And once you are married then George Wickham will not be able to hurt us, what reason can there possibly be after this for allowing that gentleman into our lives?"

"No reason at all, my darling girl," he said.

Georgiana felt lighter now, even though she dreaded the thought of George Wickham's child growing within her, but she hoped that she had convinced Fitz to not kill him, even though the thought of George Wickham dead in a paupers grave made her feel that justice was served. It would not be worth losing Fitz for the sake of Wickham, and if they called the militia and had him arrested then the ensuing scandal for the family would be worse than the punishment he would receive. To cut George off from Darcy money, however, would truly be like cutting off the head of a snake. They would just have to hope that it wouldn't bite.


	15. 1808 - Gracechurch Street

It was unseasonably cold for the summer afternoon in London, almost as if the good weather had departed for the countryside with the best of society. Charles Bingley was huffing and puffing as he scoured the newspapers, his brother by marriage glanced up from his own book, decidedly disagreeable at being constantly disturbed.

"I say, man, what the devil is the matter with you?" Mr Hurst snapped.

Charles exhaled sharply, "we were to stay at an estate in Hertfordshire which has now, rather inconveniently, become unavailable, which leaves our party at rather a loss in relation to our plans."

Hurst looked over with a confused expression on his face, which was not uncommon, "Hertfordshire? Why on earth are we going there? Nothing in it apart from fields and farmers," he placed his book down and rose to his feet, "unless, of course, you are travelling to the countryside in search of a more agreeable sport." He looked over at Charles with a grin on his face and a raised eyebrow, "you will find a considerable amount of interest in the countryside, Bingley if it is a young lady you seek."

Bingley closed the paper in temper, causing the pages to crumple, "just damned want to get out of London for just a brief moment." He was bored now of haughty expressions and stiff dances; he wanted liveliness and something that felt real beneath his fingers. "And there is always the argument that I should invest in an estate. Darcy is always of the opinion that I should procure a long term venture."

"You are looking for property?" The tone was one of surprise, he was already of the mind that Charles Bingley was more inclined to fashions and gambling than any sensible undertaking. "There is always more money to be made in the Indies than in property, although it depends if the matter is to your taste, I suppose. Personally, I see no mind to it, but I suppose I have an old-fashioned opinion."

"There is money to be made, but I know my enjoyment of it would be tainted." The thought of sending his money out to the Caribbean and the slave-farmed fields of sugar made Bingley feel positively monstrous. "My father always expressed a desire for a family foothold somewhere."

"Each to their own, Bingley, But an estate… Well, that is an admirable thought, particularly when one has not inherited their wealth from an old family line like the Darcys. You are lucky to have such a gentleman as a friend."

"I don't feel as if there is any shame in my father having made his fortune through trade, although you will find that both of my sisters will try and disguise the fact."

"Well, the purchase of an estate will improve your standing, and set you and any future Mrs Bingley in good stead…"

"Oh, there will be a future Mrs Bingley and I, for one, am determined that she should be mistress of my household before the year is out."

"Quick work! You feel she might be a resident of Hertfordshire?"

"It's as a good a starting point as any, and with Darcy halfway to the altar before we even venture out there then I shall have the pick of the crop."

"Well, if you are of the mind, I know a chap from the club, Lord Shelby – married the daughter of an Earl who ended up inheriting half of Lincolnshire, so he has his big old pile in the country lying empty. Netherfield, I think it's called, comes with a park too and a trout stream, great sport to be had if I remember correctly."

"And is it of a good size?"

Mr Hurst rose to his feet, "I'll tell you what, I'll pop on over there now and see what he says about it."

"Will he be there at this hour?" Bingley pulled out his watch, the time read 10:50.

"Lord Shelby is almost always at the club, night or day." Hurst gestured to the footman to bring his hat, "it's been empty for nearly five years, so I'm fairly sure he will be most agreeable to any terms you can negotiate."

"That would be jolly good, it really would," he didn't want to seem over-eager, but if he could let Netherfield and its park then he would be a very happy man indeed.

"Right then," he said, taking his hat and overcoat, "you have given me a mission for the day. Please, can you let Mrs Hurst that I will be home for supper?"

Charles sat back down on the settee, feeling more than slightly relieved. He had been having strange fitful dreams for the past few nights, tossing and turning in his bed until he woke restless and unrefreshed in the early hours of the morning. Was it the loss of Sarah Purcell that had caused this? He wasn't sure, but he did know that it had confirmed one thing to him. That he was ready for a wife now, that he wanted to settle down and have children, remove himself from town, the push and pull of society, and the attractions of late-night card games, and late-night women. Charles Bingley was looking for someone now who he could build a life with, someone who he could make a family with, a lady who he could call home, and in the midnight whispers of his late-night imaginings, he had become convinced that he was going to find her in Hertfordshire.

Caroline Bingley was of the opinion that she was the most eligible woman of her own acquaintance, in fact, she was so decided on this opinion that she was often most greatly vexed when people did not agree with her. Admiring herself in the mirror, as her hair was twisted and pulled into ringlets and curls, hanging resplendent from her elegant, but somewhat severe, features. Caroline wondered what else she could do to convince Fitzwilliam Darcy of her eligibility; she had tried her usual methods of persuasion, but the harder she tried the more she found that he resisted. Charles had known Darcy for a considerable amount of time now, the two men often riding and drinking together, even though her brother was more inclined to lose money at the gambling tables at their club in Bermondsey than Fitz, who was never one for gambling. Now she came to think of it, he wasn't really much of a dancer either. He was proficient – helping to fill her dancecard on more than one occasion – but he preferred to stand at the side and observe rather than participate, and as much as Caroline fancied herself the mistress of Pemberley, or hosting balls at the illustrious and grand Derbyshire House in Grosvenor Square, she wasn't entirely sure if being married to Fitz would be worth it.

"Are you dreaming again?" Louisa stepped into the room, her hair still loose, her brightly printed night robe unfastened as she crossed towards her, "I'm still waiting for my tray, so I thought I would come and see if you were ready for breakfast."

Caroline stood, displaying the mustard coloured cotton gown with the embroidered hem, "Madame Fuchs did well, do you agree?" She waited for her sister to nod, before dismissing the maid, "and no, I haven't been dreaming at all."

"Not even of Fitz?"

It had been no secret that Caroline had pined after Fitzwilliam Darcy for as long as he had been in their acquaintance and, for a while, Louisa was determined that she would arrange a match between the two until she realised that they were undecidedly suited and dismissed the idea from her mind, but despite this, Caroline had, for the most part, been frantically trying to convince him of her marital suitability. Louisa was, however, satisfied that this was due to the innate sibling rivalry betwixt sisters rather than of any serious romantic intent.

"Not at all! How unfair that I have to go down for breakfast – when it is just for Charles and myself – and you can eat in your room."

Louisa smiled, "perks of being a married woman, dear sister, and you will be pleased to know that Edward managed to secure the house."

"Netherfield? Really?"

"Yes, although I am unsure what kind of society awaits us in Hertfordshire," she sat on the bed, "the nearest town is called Meryton, and I have heard that it is full of eager girls and their eagle-eyed mothers all hunting for an eligible bachelor."

"Aye, I have heard that too, I was hoping very much that he would change his mind and choose an estate to the north."

"But we can always stay at Pemberley if we are ever in the north," Louisa scoffed, "no, it makes sense, even if we have to pay close attention to the famed Bennet daughters, all in want of husbands."

"Bennets? Ugh, sounds like a surname that will have Charles lapping up whatever simpering drivel they spout."

"We need to be on our guard with him in _Meryton_, Caroline, after his dalliance with Miss Purcell he is in half a mind to fall madly in love with whichever unsuitable woman he meets, and I have to say, I don't want to be sharing a carriage with a Bennet, however, pretty and charming she may be."

"Louisa, I never knew you were such a snob!"

"I'm not," she said, "but I have seen the lengths that some people go to, and it's not always honourable. Charles deserves someone who loves _him_ and not simply his money."

Caroline had not asked her sister about her cross-country trip with Mr Darcy, hadn't found a suitable time to discover what had happened, but she was more than curious.

"What lengths do people go to?"

Louisa would never break the confidence of the Darcys, she valued their friendship too much, and she knew that her sister could have a loose tongue when it came to trying to win the favour of people in their company.

"Great lengths, Caroline, and those people do not care who they hurt or what they do. They care only of their own gain."

"Did this person hurt Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes," she nodded, "very much so."

Caroline pondered for a moment, "it was George Wickham, wasn't it?"

Louisa looked down, a gesture which her sister took as confirmation. She knew that George Wickham was the worst kind of rogue, but the fact that he had dared trespass upon the comfort of her close friends vexed Caroline Bingley greatly indeed.

"Well," she said decidedly, crossing her arms against the world, "if George Wickham crosses my path at all he shall know about it, for I am not of the mind to pander to his villainy, even if it something that you and Fitz are wont to do."

"Nobody is going to pander to his villainy, Caroline," an edge to her voice, "and as this is not our business we would do well to stay out of it, for who knows what George Wickham will do next, although I fear for him if he crosses Darcy's path in Hertfordshire."

"Fitz is going to be our guest at Netherfield?"

"Yes, I insisted. We need him to stave off the blasted Bennets!"


	16. 1808 - The Scottish Ruby

Tick. Tock. Chime. Bell. Melody. 3pm. Georgiana was sitting through what must be the longest recital she had ever experienced, as Lady Armitage and her three sons sat on the red settee opposite, enduring the screeching of Miranda Hurst who was being accompanied by her heavy-fingered, lacklustre sister, Beatrice. The oldest of the three boys, Ernest, had already been identified as a possible suitor for Miranda, who was of suitable marriageable age and was in possession of a substantial dowry, even if she did not possess any substantial talents.

Henry, the second oldest, glanced over at his young hostess, catching her eye and acknowledging, with a well-rehearsed smile, that he was of the same mind when it came to the entertainments, and Georgiana felt herself blush, trying to hide her smile in a coffee cup. The song slowly came to an end, with a prolonged, high-pitched note emanating from the older Miss Hurst, whose face was now a similar shade to that of her bright pink dress, her hair falling down from the complicated looking clips that held it in place. She stopped sharply, the music a few beats behind, and then stood in the corner of the drawing room next to the pianoforte awaiting the appreciative applause. They all obliged quickly, and summoned her over for respite, in case she should continue with an encore. Henry passed Georgiana her tea plate, and she noticed how his hand lingered, could feel the soft pressure of her fingers through her gloves, and she moved her hand away quickly unsure of what to feel. He looked up at her quickly, knowing exactly what he had done, but she averted her gaze, still feeling his eyes on her.

"That was a really good show, girls," Ernest rose to his feet, clapping in an unjustly exuberant manner. Georgiana couldn't blame him, of course, the Armitages may have had titles but they had no money in the bank and spiralling debts from Lord Armitage's mismanagement of business affairs.

"Thank you, Mr Armitage, that is so generous of you," Miranda simpered.

Beatrice was as tall and pallid as her sister was short and rosy, and she took her seat next to the youngest Armitage, Owen, with a frown on her face and a shard of cake already in her hand.

"Why, I never issue compliments that are of no merit, Miss Hurst," he said, with a flirtatious lick to his voice, and taking her hand to kiss it.

Ernest Armitage was a handsome man and, given the chance to choose freely, he would have likely found himself ignorant of the existence of the very rich but rather dull Miss Hurst, preferring the company of his actress friend in town over nearly every other suitable woman pushed into his sphere. But Miss Hurst was pretty enough, and she had a sparkle in her eye that he found intriguing.

"You do flatter me, Mr Armitage," she said, her eyelashes fluttering.

"And what think you of Pemberley? Isn't is one of the finest houses?"

Lady Armitage raised an eyebrow, "of course, our own house is very splendid, but you have not seen it yet. The Earl has recently had the east front completely redesigned! Oh, you will have to come for tea soon, and then you will see for yourself."

The older lady commandeered the conversation for the most part, Georgiana found herself focusing on the small details of Lady Armitage's appearance. The large feather bouncing around the periphery of her bonnet, the laced edging to her gloves, the faint hint of rouge on her cheek. She had found that it was easier to concentrate on something in order to participate in conversations. It was still all so very difficult, and Fitz wasn't even here to distract her or visitors, who arrived regularly. Her brother had wanted everything to return quickly back to normal, but Georgiana didn't ever think that things would feel normal again.

"And what do you think, Miss Darcy?" Owen addressed her, as all eyes were now directed upon her person.

Georgiana flustered, "why, of course, I am in agreement," she smiled.

"Are you sure?" Henry interrupted his brother with a certain quickness, catching her eye, "I mean, do you…ahem…care for a ball, Miss Darcy?"

She spoke softly, not liking the attention, "I care for dancing, Mr Armitage."

"Well, that is settled, Miss Darcy!" The feather on Lady Armitage's hat started to bounce again, "I shall tell the Earl that we are to hold a ball at Stanlake as soon as the arrangements can be made. When is Mr Darcy due to return to Pemberley?"

Beatrice noticed the uneasy look on Georgiana's face and answered quickly, "my father, Mr Hurst, has written to say the party will arrive tomorrow evening, there will also be a Miss Godwin amongst their number who I suspect will be making your acquaintance."

Lady Armitage shot a knowing glance at her eldest son, "_the_ Miss Godwin? Miss Jemima Godwin?"

"Do you know her?" Georgiana enquired, curiosity getting the better of her nerves.

"I do know her," she stated sharply, with no continuance of the sentence something very unlike her

There was an uneasy silence, particularly given Lady Armitage's predisposition to fill every minute with the sound of her own conversation.

"I think perhaps we will now take your leave, Miss Darcy, Miss Hurst, Miss Beatrice," Ernest rose to his feet, gesturing to his brothers who both stood in sequence, each performing polite bows and leaving. The men exited, followed by the giggling Miranda, who linked her arm through Henry's with Beatrice following behind, but Lady Armitage took a step back and spoke to Georgiana directly in a quiet, muted tone.

"Miss Darcy, I do not mean to speak out of turn, and this is not something I would share if it were not of a concern," Lady Armitage's face was pointed in concentration, her voice lowered again, "Miss Godwin is not a suitable mistress for Pemberley."

Georgiana was confused, "what do you mean, Lady Armitage?"

She moved away from the door, into the nook of the drawing room hidden from listening ears and prying eyes amidst the glow of the stained glass windows and the glare from the painted faces of Stuart monarchs. The younger woman followed, eager to hear what was to be said.

"Miss Darcy… Georgiana… I have known your family for a long time. Your mother, God rest her soul, was one of my closest friends, and you must know that I only have your best interests at heart."

"I fail to understand your meaning."

"Jemima Godwin should not marry Fitzwilliam."

"Why?"

"I cannot tell you why, it is a secret that I have sworn to keep, but know this…she should not marry into your family."

Darcys were not used to being told what they should do, and Georgiana felt herself rise at this suggestion, even from Lady Armitage whose counsel she would usually seek.

"Lady Armitage, you know that I cannot persuade my brother in matters of the heart," she took a quick breath, " and neither would I want to. If Miss Godwin makes Fitzwilliam happy then, of course, he will marry her."

The lady took a step back, Georgiana Darcy was very much the image of her mother, and it made Charlotte Armitage wish that Anne Darcy was here to see her daughter so very much grown. There had been a change in the girl over the last few months, Charlotte had heard that she had returned from Ramsgate with much haste and secrecy, but there was little gossip or hearsay surrounding it. Georgiana had always been a loud, commanding girl, fully aware of her family privilege and not afraid to demand it when necessary, but now there was a certain reserved frailness that had not been there before and she wondered why.

"I understand, Georgiana, of course. I simply felt that it was best to inform you, so you could likewise advise your brother of my concerns."

"I know," she said quietly, "but you know as well as I that once my brother has set his course, he is the most determined of men."

Charlotte smiled and leaned in to embrace Georgiana, who received it gratefully. There was a smell of gardenia and powder.

"All will be as it should, Georgiana," she said, "I firmly believe it."

"It will, Lady Armitage, and you have a ball to arrange too, so I am sure we will all be in each other's company again soon enough."

Charlotte smiled again, the rustle of her skirts and the heavy heel of her boots on the wooden floorboards, the door softly closing behind her. Georgiana sat down again, confused and concerned because surely Miss Godwin was the loveliest of women to have her brother in such thrall.

"Oh, I do apologise, Miss Georgiana." Mrs Reynolds came into the room supervising one of the younger maids who was carrying a huge vase filled with flowers from the gardens, placing it carefully by the window. "We thought you had finished with the room."

"It's alright, Mrs Reynolds, I was about to…" She stopped for a quick moment, "when are my brother and the party due to arrive?"

"Well," the Darcy housekeeper harrumphed, "Mr Darcy originally said tomorrow evening, but your brother sent word that he will arrive after dinner tonight with rest of the party to follow as planned."

"Fitzwilliam is home tonight?"

"Yes," she nodded, noticing the smile on the girl's face, "and glad to be home I reckon."

"I am so pleased that I get to spend some time in his company before the rest of our visitors arrive."

"I imagine so," the older lady nodded. "Pemberley is always a much happier place when the master is home."

"And I am a much happier sister," she grinned.

Looking out over the courtyard, she could see Miranda and Beatrice waving goodbye to the Armitages, before disappearing up onto Cage Hill until all that could be seen were the dots of their bonnets on the horizon. It had been hard without the comforting reassurance of Fitzwilliam there, during the day she could distract herself with music and visitors and needlework, but in the evening she found it hard to sleep, the darkness encroaching on her mind as she tried to block out the memories.

It was during dinner that Fitz arrived home, preferring to retire straight to his rooms than call on his sister and the Hurst girls who were halfway through what Georgiana thought was a rather good venison pie. She made note to have some sent up for him on a tray, but for now the words of Lady Armitage were still rattling around her mind.

"What is Miss Godwin like," she asked, "do you think she will like me?"

Beatrice sneered, but this was not uncommon and not necessarily a sign of her disdain but more a continuation of her usual expression, "I think you should be more concerned with whether or not you like her."

Georgiana gestured for more wine from Staughton, "you do not think I will like Miss Godwin?"

The younger Hurst was younger yet than Georgiana herself but had an air about her of being all-knowing and wise, "it's not that I do not think you will not like her, for Miss Godwin is herself charm personified."

"In public," Miranda interrupted.

"In public?" She looked from sister to sister, "are you of the opinion that Miss Godwin is not to be trusted?"

The sisters looked at each other, Miranda gesturing to Beatrice to speak, "I do not trust her, but I think it would be very easy to convince yourself that she is trustworthy."

"Oh," she said, rolling around the glass in her hand, "well, my papa always said that you are best to form your opinion on someone's character. So I shall do just that," she smiled at her guests, thoroughly decided upon her course of action, " besides, we do have to consider that maybe Miss Godwin is shy…sometimes it can come across as reticent or standoffish."

"You are right, sister," Fitz's voice came thundering through from the library and Georgiana immediately jumped up at the recognition. Miranda and Beatrice smiled at each other knowingly as their hostess ran over to her brother, hugging him tightly, almost knocking him off his feet. "Alright, alright."

She grabbed his hand and brought him to the table, sitting him down on the chair next to her own, the Hurst sisters giggling.

"I see you are both greatly amused, girls," he grinned, gesturing for Staughton to fill his glass and taking a piece of bread from the centre of the table, applying butter lavishly. "And how are we all this evening? How do you find Pemberley, Miss Hurst?"

Miranda seemed temporarily starstruck, a flush upon her cheek, "I find it most agreeable, Mr Darcy, I never realised that Derbyshire was so beautiful!"

Georgiana glanced over at her brother with a quick smile, "we have been around the park in the phaeton and yesterday Miss Beatrice did a wonderful sketch of Mama's rose garden."

"Oh, really?" Fitz looked over at Beatrice, who seemed to be pretending he didn't exist, "I would really like to see your drawing, Miss Beatrice, your father has been talking about your talent these last few weeks, I rather think he would like you to sketch us all."

She looked up quickly, a look of surprise on her face, "oh, Papa said he liked my art?"

"He talked of nothing else," he smiled, "if you would oblige I would very much like you to sketch a likeness of me."

"I would love to, Mr Darcy," an uncharacteristic smile crossing her lips.

"Yes brother," Georgiana laughed, "you could hang it on the gallery to scare away the ghost of Lady Hortense." Fitz laughed too, pleased to see that some of her lightness was returning.

"You have a ghost?" Miranda was intrigued at the prospect of a ghost, the house on Grosvenor Street was still relatively new and as far as she was aware there was no chance of any spiritual encounters.

"Don't be silly, Miranda," her sister said quickly, "there are no such things as ghosts."

"Of course there are ghosts," Georgiana's voice rose an octave, "Lady Hortense is the White Lady of Pemberley she was our great-great grandfather's first wife and many people believe that he threw off the gallery edge to her death!" There was more than a hint of the dramatic to her telling of the tale.

Her brother hid his amused face behind a napkin, whilst Miranda's eyes went as wide as saucers, "do you think we will see the ghost, Miss Darcy?"

"Well," Fitz interrupted, "to see the ghost means that a great misfortune is to occur at Pemberley, so I would very appreciate it very much if she failed to make an appearance during your visit."

"Well I, for one, think that spirits and ghosts are simply a fantastical construct designed to confuse the mind."

"No-one really cares what you think, Beatrice," Miranda snapped, "I, for one, think that it's scary to think of your ancestors walking around the house without you knowing, Georgiana."

Fitz grinned, "if you do happen to see Lady Hortense, please ask her if she knows where Cyril hid the Scottish Ruby."

"The Scottish Ruby?" The interest of the younger Miss Hurst was piqued.

Georgiana sighed from across the table and slumped into her chair, "oh Fitz, please don't start with this stupid treasure hunt nonsense again."

"It's not nonsense… It's Pemberley legend."

"I do love a legend, Mr Darcy," Miranda mooned, leaning forward across the table. "Please tell us about the Scottish Ruby."

"Miranda it's not as intriguing as he is having you believe," Georgiana admonished, "it's fairly dull."

"I would still to hear it though, Mr Darcy," Miranda said, with as strange simpering tone Georgiana and Beatrice recognised all too well, "I hear that you are rather wonderful at telling stories."

"No more so than any other gentleman with a captive audience, Miss Hurst."

"Fitz, just get on with it," Georgiana said, "I am eager for pudding."

Miranda and Beatrice turned their attention to their handsome host, and he admitted to himself that he was quite enjoying their attentions.

"The Scottish Ruby was given to Duchess Mary, our great great great grandmother, by her mother who had been a companion of Mary, Queen of Scots."

"The one who lost her head?" Miranda gulped, as her sister sighed and nudged her sharply.

"Yes, but before that happened she was held as prisoner of Queen Elizabeth and kept at lots of grand houses in the north…"

"…including this one," Georgiana interrupted, taking up the tale, "and so she wanted to reward her loyal servants before she died and gave away a lot of her jewels, including the Scottish Ruby, which was a ring."

"Was it, G? I thought it was a necklace?"

"No, it was a ring… No wonder you never found it."

"How long has it been lost for?" Beatrice asked, she was curious now, wanted to solve the riddle.

Fitz continued, "Cyril, the third Duke…"

"Duke? Cyril Darcy was a Duke? Are you a Duke, Mr Darcy?"

"Of course, he's not a duke, Miranda."

"No, Miss Hurst, I am not a Duke, but in the past Darcys were."

"It's why our house in London is called Derbyshire House," Georgiana added, "Pemberley was the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Derbyshire."

"Oh," Miranda was even more impressed now at being a houseguest of the Darcys, who were – to her mind – practically aristocracy.

"Please can you continue the story?" Beatrice was eager to know the end.

"Of course, Cyril presented the Scottish Ruby to Lady Hortense Holland-Darcy upon their marriage, and she wore it every day. However, when she was…" he looked at his audience, chose a more delicate phrase, "…discovered…the ring was missing and it has not been seen since."

"Really?" Miranda was excited, "so a ghost and a mystery! Why one should write a novel about this!"

"Even better!" Fitz agreed, "the legend goes that Lady Hortense took the ring to hell with her to strike a bargain with the devil himself, and that her curse is to walk the hallways of Pemberley forever," he dropped his voice lower for effect, which seemed to have the desired response as both Hurst girls oohed and ahhhed.

"My papa thought that had just been stolen by a light-fingered servant, which seems more realistic," Georgiana said, "but it didn't stop Fitz from spending his free time trying to find it."

"Oh, what larks!" Miranda clapped her hands with excitement, "and did you spend every summer here at Pemberley when you were younger?"

"Indeed I did, Miss Hurst."

"I met a gentleman in town not so long ago who claimed your acquaintance and familiarity with Pemberley, it was one of the reasons why I longed to stay here."

Fitz knew the name that was coming, hoped that Miss Hurst would stop her mouth, Georgiana looked up at him quickly, she knew too. He was sure he saw the blood drain from her face.

"Mr Wickham said that he spent such wonderful times here at Pemberley in his youth, he said that summer in Derbyshire was a fruit ready to pluck," she took a gulp of her wine, unaware of the effect of her words on her dinner companions. "Mr George Wickham. You do know him, don't you? He wasn't just telling me a tale to gain my confidence."

"Excuse me," Georgiana said quickly rising from her seat at the table, "I would like some air."

Fitz threw down his napkin, stood quickly, "allow me to accompany you. Miss Hurst, Miss Beatrice…" a stiff bow, followed by a gesture to Staughton to serve pudding.

"Was it something I said?" Miranda asked Beatrice, who shook her head and took a mouthful of wine.

Georgiana paced quickly through the ante-room, past the clump of footmen waiting for service, through the library still covered in cloths and smelling of paint, the sunshine of the late summer evening shining through the windows, reflecting off the lake, pushing through the door into the hallway, the echo of Fitz's footsteps behind her own, heading towards the Saloon and the balcony where she took in mouthfuls of air, breathing in deeply, feeling light-headed, sparkles in front of her eyes, and then the warm, strong embrace of Fitz who held her tightly.

"I thought I was alright, Fitz, I thought I was alright…" her voice a small whimper in the large room, they sank to the floor together and he pulled her in close and held her tight.

"You will be alright, Georgie, I promise you."

"Maybe one day," she said, "but not today."

"Not today, but however long it takes."

They sat there together for a long time, holding each other close in the grand saloon – her mother's favourite room - with the rococo ceiling and the Grinling Gibbons carvings and the gilt-edged mirrors, all at once in awe and swallowed up by it. It was a long time before the sobs stopped, and Staughton found his Master and Miss Georgiana still sitting on the floor fast asleep as the uneven playing of Beatrice Hurst echoed throughout the house.


	17. 1808 - The Arrivals

Bridget pulled on her shoes, her hair was neatly pinned, and she brushed down her grey apron, before walking quickly along the north top corridor, pushing past the other girls who were all busy preparing for the day. The sun was glinting over Cage Hill, bright beams hitting the glass in the sashes, as young Dotty, who barely reached the windowsills, tapped on the doors of the more senior servants to wake them, almost tripping over her dress as her boots caught on the hem.

Pemberley was already awake, scullery maids lighting fires, housemaids opening shutters and curtains, kitchen maids chopping and kneading, and overseeing it all was Mrs Reynolds, the firm but fair Darcy housekeeper, ensuring that everything was prepared to the highest of standards. In the kitchens the girls were working with the new chef, Mr Artaud, who had travelled up from Pemberley from London only a few weeks before. He had been hired to work with Mrs Boyle at Derbyshire House, however she had been quickly offended by his manner in the kitchen and his superior culinary expertise, and so he had been sent to the estate. Adam Artaud, not as French as his name would have people believe, was happy to travel to the north, where the sky was blue, and the house was filled with giggling girls who liked a coy flirtation over the pastry table.

"How are the biscuits coming along, Mr Artaud?"

Mrs Reynolds wandered into the kitchens, squeezing past kitchen maids who quickly bobbed their deference and then continued with their work, kneading, and stirring, and carrying trays of treats and delights from the hot, noisy kitchens into the storage rooms that ran underneath the house.

"Very well," he smiled, "I've got Bridget here doing something delightful with sugar."

The girl stood next to him did a smile and continued on with her work, whilst Mrs Reynolds studied her carefully, she had a look of her brother.

"Excellent work, Miss Wickham, and the Prince of Wales biscuits?"

"Already done, and we have the brown onion soup as requested by Miss Darcy."

"Best do white soup too, that's the master's favourite."

"Two soups?"

"And why not two soups? Surely, we can stretch the budget, Mrs Reynolds?"

Fitzwilliam stood at the doorway of the kitchen, causing a frisson of excitement amidst the maids who all stood to attention in the presence of Mr Darcy; even little Dotty, her face still smudged with coal stretched as tall as she could to see the master.

"Why, Mr Darcy, we do not usually expect you downstairs…" the housekeeper fumbled.

He smiled, "I woke early and… well, I was wondering if I could trouble you for some bread and maybe a slice of cheese?"

Mrs Reynolds nodded to one of the more senior girls, who disappeared into the larder, "Maria will get that for you now, sir, and bring it up to your rooms?"

"Thank you, Mrs Reynolds," he did a short, stiff bow. "Mr Artaud, two soups would be perfection… and your white soup is beyond compare."

Adam did a polite bow in response to this compliment; he knew his soup was excellent, but it was nice to have it recognised by a gentleman who dined in the finest houses in the country.

"…And thank you, ladies, you may now all return to your work and I will bother you no longer."

Fitzwilliam turned on his heel, but gestured to Mrs Reynolds to follow, which she did. They travelled along the short corridor, back up the stairs through Mr Staughton's pantry, where footmen were busy unpacking the silver from the large wooden trunks that carried it up and down the country, and then past Mr Staughton himself who was pouring bottles of port into heavy bottomed decanters, and then up more stairs to the ante-room, where the overly ornate gold clock was chiming out an off-key melody signalling that it was seven o'clock.

"Mrs Reynolds… Frances…"

"Yes, Mr Darcy, what is the matter?"

She could see that his face was all concern, that there was something he wanted to say and he was simply looking for the words, and she placed her hand gently on his arm. Standing nearly a foot taller than her, he was now a grown man, but his expression and his features were the same as when he was small. He was her master and she was still his servant, but to Mrs Reynolds, Fitzwilliam Darcy would always be the young boy who ran into her skirts trying to hide from his nightmares.

"Georgiana is… she is out of danger now, I believe?"

She nodded, and saw his façade drop for the briefest of moments, "she is. You have no need to worry about Miss Georgiana and anything regarding Ramsgate. Nobody knows, excepting Staughton and myself, and even if anybody knew anything, they would never say. We are a family here at Pemberley, Master Fitzwilliam…"

He looked up quickly, a small reassured smile crossing his face for the briefest of moments, "I know that. Thank you, Mrs Reynolds." Leaning down he gave her a small kiss on the cheek, "and now we have but a few hours until our guests arrive."

"I hear that maybe our new mistress is to be amongst the party," she said, "am I correct in my information?"

She immediately saw the change in his countenance, his face lit up and a smile crossed his face,

"Aye," he confirmed, "if all goes to plan."

"Well, we better impress her then."

"Mrs Reynolds, I have never doubted you once."


	18. 1914 - Lady Anne's Ball

Rupert Fitzwilliam was nervous. He wasn't one for events like this, he could dance and make conversation, of course, but as for talking to people he didn't know, then he was completely flummoxed. The suit felt tight, his collar uncomfortable, the fashionable dancing shoes his mother had chosen pinching his toes a little too tightly. He smoothly pulled a cigarette from a monogrammed silver holder. It had belonged to Fitzwilliam Darcy, an heirloom bequeathed from his grandmother, Mabel, the engraving inside reading '__Unum factum ex multis__, the Darcy family motto, usually imprinted or embossed in the customary Latin on books, over doorways, sometimes even badly embroidered onto cushions or pillowcases by impatient, bored daughters. He threw the cigarette into his mouth, casually accepting a light from a stiff waiter stood at the entrance to the saloon, and taking a long luxurious drag.

At every corner, there were girls standing with their parents, fathers in ink-black cocktail jackets with waxed moustaches, mothers with glittering tiaras. When he was a child he always remembered Mabel getting ready for this event, the Matlock coronet perched on her head, the Bennet diamonds dripping from her ears and wrist, and her velvety voice calling him up onto her knee, the beads of her dress scratchy through the legs of his pyjama trousers as the impatient nursery maid tapped her foot at the doorway. Rupert always remembered how his grandmother had loved the pomp and circumstance of the Lady Anne Ball, the bustle of silks and satins, a giggle, the scent of powder. His hand moved back to his pocket, and he fingered the smooth silver case through his gloves as he had done when he had been much younger. His grandmother may have been a Fitzwilliam by marriage, but it was Darcy blood that flowed through her veins. She had been gone for a few years now, but he only remembered how long it had been when he thought about how much she had missed.

"Fitzwilliam!"

"Delancey," he took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in a marble ashtray, strategically placed between two large drooping arrangements of azaleas, carnations and lilies of the valley.

Kit pulled him into a friendly embrace, already merry with the copious amounts of champagne on offer, his jacket heavy with the scent of cigars. Whilst Rupert was tall and broad, with a whisp of blond curls, he always felt clunky and out of place, whereas Kit was tall and smooth with his dark hair slicked back, dashing across the ballroom with the effortless grace that his height afforded him, his wandering eye passing his approval across the bevvy of debutantes hiding behind fans and coy smiles. For a fleeting moment, Rupert was certain his cousin looked positively predatory as Kit whisked him through to the library, where Agatha was looking impatient, and next to her, swathed in beads and ivory silk was Penny.

"She won't have you, you know," Kit smiled softly, "and don't take that as a personal slight. She won't have anyone."

"She will have to have someone eventually."

"I don't know, old chum," he sighed, "times are changing."

"Even at Pemberley?"

"Especially at Pemberley. They even have electricity upstairs now," he raised an eyebrow as they both remembered the arguments between Edward and Cecily the previous summer. "Why don't you ask her to dance?"

"Who?"

"Penny."

Rupert glanced over, trying not to make it obvious, "she wouldn't agree."

"Now you are doing her a great disservice, she might not have any inclination towards marriage, but she is a Darcy. We are all very polite."

"You're as much a Darcy as I am, Kit."

"Maybe a touch more," his eye twinkled as he spotted Violet Molyneaux reaching the bottom of the staircase and made a move toward her, "go on, man, Penny won't bite…at least not too hard."

Rupert couldn't quite recall the moment he had realised he was in love with Millicent Darcy, it seemed as if he had been in the middle of it before he knew it had begun, and even though it was inconvenient and desperately unrequited, he knew it was love. Not that big, thunderbolt love that they wrote about in plays and poems, but a rare, precious thing that he needed to keep secret and safe.

"Lord Fitzwilliam," she said, with a gentle curtsey.

"Lady Darcy."

"Rupert," she said with a smile, "We haven't had you here at Pemberley since Christmas and Gig says you have been missing in action since Easter. I was half suspecting that you had been snapped up by one of the ravenous fathers of Grosvenor Square and catapulted into matrimony before we even had a chance to blink."

"Chance would be a fine thing, Penny, I have been in Yorkshire for most of the season."

"Oh yes," her smile dropped slightly, "I am so sorry to hear about your Papa."

"He will be well again," he said, not believing it.

She saw the sadness pass across his eyes and placed her hand on his shoulder, "that's a relief to hear, and I have been missing your darling face."

There was something about the way she said it, the way that made his heart catch in his mouth. 'His darling face'.

"I've been busy, of course," he flustered, "Waddingham is a constant job to be done."

"Oh yes," she nodded in agreement, "Papa is always complaining, and Gig is no use at all."

"He does not help your father?"

"Not a jot," she rolled her eyes, and he remembered how blue they were, "although it does give me the opportunity to learn how to deal with tenants and their maladies..."

"…and sheep!"

"Yes," she laughed, "you remembered from my letter."

"You do write so eloquently."

"Flattery will get you precisely nowhere with me, Rupert Fitzwilliam."

"I wasn't intending for it to get me anywhere."

"Well, that's a shame." There was a moment where she looked at him, where she caught his eye, where his heart throbbed in his chest and he felt immediately exposed. She must have seen the flush rush up his cheek, the redness catching against the white blonde of his hair. "Oh, darling, I am being such a tease."

"No, not at…erm… should we have a dance?"

"Yes!"

Her eyes lit up as she linked her arm through his and they walked through to the dining room, where a small group of musicians dressed in cocktail suits played jaunty old-fashioned tunes to the merry audience squeezed into the room, the air heavy with smoke, raucous with gaiety.

"What do you think of the decoration?"

The comment was offhand, Rupert knew that Millicent never sought approval from anybody. He glanced around the room, where the grand plaster ceiling installed by Wyatt was gloriously lit by the new electric lights, the portraits of previous residents smiling down on the partygoers. Outside in the garden, the grounds were illuminated by burning torches stabbing the late spring soil, and even the Lantern, standing gloriously on top of the hill, was alight. Pemberley always looked magnificent when playing its role as party hostess, and tonight was no exception.

"It's beautiful," he said.

She looked up quickly, her eyes dark and round, "thank you. That means a lot coming from you."

"It does?"

"Of course," there was a pause. It lasted forever. "You are damned terrible at shooting, but you do have a good eye for decoration. I saw the work you did with your mother in the London house."

There was a moment when he thought the conversation may take on a different turn, but whatever it could have been was interrupted by the bang of a gong, and the band marked the arrival of Edward and Cecily with a flourish. There was a short shuffle as everyone moved back to create space in the centre of the room, latecomers clamouring at the edges to see the Duke of Derbyshire in his finery, and the glamourous American Duchess, Cecily, in her New York couture gown. Rupert could hear the excited chatter of the Wyndham sisters who were perched in front of them, hair curled upwards, dotted with jewels, wearing fashionable dresses with loose fabrics and beaded hems. On the opposite side of the dining room, Gig and Bertie waved his attention, before nodding reverently as Edward and Cecily stood centre stage.

The Lady Anne Ball was a massive event in the social calendar, a Pemberley fixture for over one hundred years. Edward Darcy had not been born to become the Duke of Derbyshire, and it was only evident when he was required to speak publically as he was now. His career as the Member of Parliament for the area had been short-lived and he was glad of it. Things like this always made him feel far more nervous than he supposed they ought. He spent the hours before the ball pacing his rooms like a madman, shouting at his wife, smoking far too much and generally being hideous to be around. Cecily took his hand in hers and squeezed it quickly, a reassuring marital shorthand, and he felt relief course through his veins. It was either that or the glass of whiskey she had made him drink a few moments ago, he could never tell.

"Thank you one and all for accepting our invitation to the Lady Anne Ball and to our home at Pemberley. The ball was started in 1795 to celebrate the life of my revered ancestor, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam-Darcy, who was responsible for… shall we say… __encouraging__ the work that makes our beloved country estate the grand retreat that you see before you today and not the Elizabethan manor house it was built as."

There was a small cheer and some clapping, a Fitzwilliam brother called out 'To the Lady Anne', and everyone raised their glasses and repeated it with a solemnity that verged on religious.

Edward smiled at his guests, the sea of faces filling the dining room, "as is the custom we shall begin with our traditional dance 'Haste to the Wedding'. Now, everyone needs to get in position," Edward gestured to the couples standing nearest, "don't worry if you don't know the movements, hardly anyone does! We'll just ask Mr Gregory here to play very loudly and keep going until we've all done!"

Mr Gregory, the bespectacled, moustached leader of the band, tapped on his music stand with a long baton, nodding agreeably. Millicent took Rupert by the hand and pushed him into his place on the dancefloor, a giggle escaping from her lips as she smiled across from him. Next to him stood Gig, partnered by Emily Chartwell, looking devilish in a purple gown and a feathered headdress, Kit further down the line with Violet as the music began to play and Cecily and Edward made their way down the line, laughing as they did.

"I don't know the dance," Rupert said over the loud Celtic tune, "what should I do?"

Millicent grabbed his hand, "nobody knows it, just do what I do!"

Bounding down the line of people, Rupert span and bounced from side to side with Millicent's hands in his, until they reached the end and joined the lines of couples again. Breathless, he reached for a glass from a convenient waiter, the pop of bubbles down his throat, Millicent took one too, and they grinned at each other, as Gig and Emily swirled past them. But all Rupert could see in the room was Millicent. How her hair was curled and pinned up, little diamond and sapphire clips holding it all in place, how the jewels at her neck sparkled, and then it was every kind word she had said, every moment they had shared, every letter they had exchanged and all of it was written beautifully across her face and there it was, the thunderbolt.

"Time to go again," she shouted, "give me your hand!"

She reached for him, firmly grasping his hands in hers as they went back up the dance, under and over, arms arching as they tangled and clapped amidst the rest of the dancers.

There was that laugh again.

* * *

The moon was high over Pemberley, the light reflecting off the lake at the front of the house. Millicent sat on the steps in front of the Orangery, there were faint giggles to be heard in the distance, probably Kit and Emily hiding away on the top lawn and whispering sweet nothings to each other, and the clink of glasses from behind her, where Cecily and Catriona Fitzwilliam were drinking champagne and swapping gossip between them. The whole house was illuminated in the dark, the soft lamps in the window of the library She lit her cigarette, slipping the silver lighter back into the embroidered clutch bag that perfectly matched her dress. It had been a long few days back in Derbyshire and she was ready to call for her maid and get into bed. The next few days were to be fraught with planning and travelling, but she couldn't tell anyone. Not just yet.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She hadn't heard the soft shuffle of Rupert's shoes on the grass, and he stepped down slowly and sat next to her. He lit his cigarette and looked out on to the lake.

"You wouldn't be interested in my thoughts," she said, "I think they would be too controversial for you."

He raised his eyebrow and took a pull on his cigarette, and she noticed that his eyes were the same colour blue as hers. There was the way his bottom lip drooped slightly too, it was quite adorable, although she wouldn't ever tell him this.

"At a guess, Penny, I would say you were referring to your…__ahem__…political activities."

She harrumphed a little, "there is no need to be dismissive."

"I wasn't."

"Oh, I suppose you are going to say you take a __great__ interest," her voice rose an octave and he was equal parts scared and amused.

"No," there was a cough, nerves? Cigarette smoke? He was unsure, "not at all, I think setting fire to Viscount Ribble's house was highly amusing, and it got you out of your predicament with Lord Dungarry."

"That wasn't me!" Her voice edged with defiance, "although I must thank __whoever__ it was for…well, the Dungarry fiasco."

He looked at her knowingly, "it __was__ you then… I wasn't sure, but I thought it may have been you and your Manchester women."

"Don't be like that, Fitz."

"I like that you are so passionate about it. I think the whole cause is damned admirable, why shouldn't women be given the vote? Yes! It's been a long time coming, I think…"

"You agree? You agree that women should be allowed to vote and have equal rights with men?"

"I do," he nodded, "maybe not __all __women at first, I should say that- "

"Not __all__ women? But Rupert, you must understand that it has to be all women… and all men too. Why should such a large majority of the population of our country be disenfranchised because of an abhorrent and outdated system?"

Rupert was vastly out of his depth. He did not care for politics, but he did care for Millicent.

"But what when you marry? What will your husband say? What would Lord Dungarry have said?"

"Oh, who cares what Thomas Dungarry would have said. The man is a complete oaf! Besides which, I am never going to marry regardless of who Agatha throws under my feet," she said, stubbing out her cigarette angrily against the stone steps, "but if I__did__ marry…"

"__When__ you marry, you mean."

He looked over, a teasing smile caught on his lips and her anger dissipated.

"Rupert, why are you trying to vex me so? Remember I am a much better shot than you and I could easily make your death look like an accident."

"I'm not trying to vex you, dearest Penny, although I fear I may have succeeded without any attempt, and who can forget your talent with a shotgun? I, for one, am bloody glad that I'm not a pheasant in these woods when you are about with Big Bertha!"

"There is no need to be __rude__," she smiled softly, "I know __you __must marry… provide a whole stableyard of baby Fitzwilliams to keep Waddingham's hunger for status sated, but the same is not required of me."

"I __must__ provide an heir, yes," he stubbed out his cigarette too, rising to his feet and stepping down onto the pathway that circled the lake. "but I __want__ a wife. Who wouldn't want someone to be part of a team with? It's like spending every day with your very best friend, do you not think?"

"You have a very idealistic view of marriage," she guffawed. "Marriage is a constant slog of compromises and bloody hard work."

"But what about your parents," he gestured to the glowing house behind them, "they are the epitome of love and respect. Your father adores your mother."

"My father adored my mother's dowry and the money she came with, he fell in love with her later. That is all we can hope for in our position."

"Are the women you fight for any different?"

"Do you even __care__ about the women I fight for?"

As they walked up the stairs towards the top lawn, he felt his fingertips catch hers.

"I do care, actually. I know you must think I am a frightful oik, but I'm not like that. I promise you."

She paused, turned her full face to him, the light from the house and the moon catching her features in the darkness. He heard her breath catch, "I don't think you're like that at all, quite the opposite in fact."

"Oh," he said, hoping that the sound of his heart beating in his chest wasn't loud enough for her to hear.

"Oh, indeed," she said softly, putting her hand in his and holding it tightly.

Pemberley glistened in the darkness of the estate, a faint melody and the distant trill of laughter still heard in the distance.


	19. 1914 - Lady Anne's Ball: Part 2

The spring sunshine was glinting through the velvet curtains of the Oak Bedroom, a luxurious suite of three rooms which looked out to the East. It was still very early, and Rupert was certain that he could still hear the song of the lark echoing in the parkland. His head ached from the amounts of champagne he had consumed the previous night, and he lay still and unmoving on the cotton pillowcases, the face of Fitzwilliam Darcy peering down eerily from his place on the wall over the embroidered velvet canopy. It was early as the fires had not been lit yet, he pulled his robe from the chair, wrapped it tightly around him into the shiver of cold that pervaded Pemberley even in the summertime.

"Come back to bed," she said from that place halfway between dreaming and awake.

She was softer in the morning, her edges smoothed by sleep, and he climbed back into bed, pulling her close to him, as she curled her arm around his neck and kissed him deeply. He pulled away first, and she opened her eyes, looked worried.

"Is everything alright?"

"Perfect."

He smiled, he thought it was to himself, but she must have seen it cross his face, and she smiled back, kissing him again with open eyes and a laugh.

They had walked around the lake, settling on the grass opposite the house, where she kicked off her shoes and lay back to look at the stars, pointing out to him the Ursa Major and Ursa Minor as they giggled, slightly drunk, she leaned over and loosened his bow tie, and he felt himself blush, remembering the night after the ball at Derbyshire House, where they had fallen into bed, and he had unbuttoned her dress with fumbling fingers.

"We should be on the roof really," she whispered, passing him the newly-lit cigarette and pointing up at the constellations, "that's where the views are best."

"You are very learned in the art of stargazing, Lady Darcy…" she smelled like jasmine and lavender.

"It is one of my hidden passions… astronomy. Papa bought me a telescope for my birthday and I swear you can see Jupiter if the conditions are right."

"Jupiter?"

"Yes! Isn't it wondrous to think of all everything… all of the worlds out there. Can you imagine what it would be like to see the world from so far away?"

He had never really thought about it before. That was the thing about Millicent Darcy, she made him think things he had never thought about before.

"How do you do that?" His brow furrowed a little, "see everything so differently?"

"I see things how they should be, Rupert, rather than how they are."

"Your Manchester women, again?"

She rolled her eyes and rose to her feet, "maybe my Manchester women, but maybe everything… look at all of this," she stretched her arm out at the glowing expanse of Pemberley, "this is the only place where I ever feel truly at home, Rupert, and one day my father will die, my brother will inherit and I will be forced to leave. Where is the justice in that?"

He pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders, there was a chill in the air now as the summer breeze drifted in from the peaks, "it's the way things have always been, Penny, but it doesn't mean it's wrong."

"It doesn't mean that it's right either," she sighed picking up her shoes and walking along the grass, he followed behind her, "things need to change."

"In what way? Should we all just fall into bed with each other and damn the consequences?"

"Is that what you think of me, Rupert Fitzwilliam?" Her voice took on an air of indignance, "that I casually make love to every handsome gentleman who crosses my path."

"What have you done to led me to believe anything different? You were gone the following morning, and then you ignored me for the rest of the week. You have no appreciation for how cold you can be when you choose it, Millicent Darcy."

"Cold?" She turned and began to walk with heavy feet towards the path, "what did you want me to do? Ask Mrs Boyle to bring us up a tray? Or," she struggled to pull the strap of her shoe around the back of her heel as it slipped on her stockings, "should one have it announced in The Times?"

"Imagine the scandal!"

His voice was amused, but she was right. It was no laughing matter. He had been terrified that someone must have seen her slip away from his room on the second floor of Derbyshire House, that some errant maid or eagle-eyed valet would have spied Lady Darcy sneaking back to her rooms. Rupert knew that he would have been alright, that his reputation would have been unharmed, maybe even bolstered by the dalliance, but Millicent would have been ruined if their liaison was discovered.

"Just because I don't want to marry, it doesn't mean that I don't have a desire to love and be loved… Why should I not be afforded that, simply because I am a woman?"

"You say this as if love comes easily for men."

"I know enough of men to understand that you can separate pleasure from moral obligation."

"That is true of some men, but not all men." He lowered his head, "not this man. You know that."

"I _do_ know that. Why do you think I…why do you think I that wanted it to be you? It could only ever have been you."

And then he thought he might have understood.

"Me?"

"Yes, that is why it was alright to still write to you and not feel awkward," she said, "dance with you as if nothing had happened, as if…" she hesitated, and he wondered what she wanted to say. "I only asked Mama to invite you to the shoot so I could spend time with you, even if you preferred the company of my brothers."

Over by Orangery, Edward Darcy was loudly singing an old Army song with one of his friends, and they could pick out the voice of his wife carrying across the water berating him for his drunken behaviour, as Gig and Bertie helped to take him inside. He caught her smile softly to herself. The Darcys were a loving and devoted family, the three children all close in age, and growing up together in a manner less rigid than his own. Rupert had grown up at Waddingham, the great Fitzwilliam estate in Wakefield, with its ancient customs and strict rules. His father had been the eldest son of Mabel Darcy, and he had inherited the title of Earl of Matlock and all of the responsibilties that came with it when he was just a boy. His mother, drowning in her own sorrow, had taken the older children away from the cold, unforgiving isles and travelled the world. But the young boy still wretched with grief had been returned back to school to continue his education. It had instilled a sense of duty in Richard Fitzwilliam which resulted in him becoming a stern father and a harsh critic to the six sons that he was blessed with, although it gave them all a slightly resentful nature and a predisposition for their mama.

Rupert had always loved the warm freedom of Pemberley when he would visit each summer, free to run around the grounds with a reckless abandon and experience the affectionate family atmosphere that he was missing at home. Even blustery Edward, whose sole reason for inviting the Fitzwilliam brothers was to bolster the estate cricket team, would join in with Cecily's end of summer theatrical productions – throwing water at the players from the wings, and generally making a nuisance – whilst Rupert would timidly peek from behind the curtain at his own father sitting in the front row with a mean mouth and disapproving stare.

"I always enjoy any time that I spend at Pemberley, you know it is one of my most favourite places in the world, but that was not why I came. You know that I had hoped that it meant you would…"

"Rupert, please don't."

"What do you want from me, Penny? I know you will never marry me! You've made that perfectly clear, am I simply invited here to amuse you?"

"No, of course not! You are invited here because-"

"Because of what?!"

"There is no need to interrupt what I am saying! There is no need to be rude," she said. "You _knew_… you know full well that I don't want to marry anyone, but if I did you know that I- "

"That you would what… want to marry me?"

The words were left hanging in the air, the world became very silent all at once; as if everything was balanced upon what she might say next.

"Yes."

She reached for him in the darkness, the twinkle of the Darcy emerald heavy on her finger. He felt the coldness of it first, the platinum band smooth against his skin, and the warmth of her hand as she intertwined her fingers in between his. He wanted to look up, but he was scared. Scared of what this all meant.

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes, but can we not just take these moments that we have and enjoy them? There is going to be war, and it's going to be huge and catastrophic. We both know it. Who even knows where we will all be when it is over."

"We don't know where we will be, Penny, we could be anywhere," he took a breath, now or never, "but wouldn't it be better if we didn't know together?"

She eyed him with suspicion, "you don't need a marriage license for that, Rupert."

"That's not what I -"

"It is," she rolled her eyes, focusing on the heavens above, swinging her legs as she sat on the tree trunk that lay alongside the pathway "you may pander to my opinions and agree with me out of politeness, but you said it yourself… you want a wife, and you _need_ an heir. We can enjoy each other's company, for now, and we can enjoy each other, but when it comes to it, you will need to do your duty. We both will."

"We will," he said, now fully understanding what she was asking of him.

"But there is a problem," she turned to face him now, could finally look him in the eye properly, "you see, I think that I'm in love you, Rupert, and it puts a spanner in the works somewhat. Once I figured it out it made everything much more complicated, and I never dreamed I would have to tell you. I thought you already knew."

"There are a lot of things I know about you, Millicent Darcy," he said, as he took a seat next to her on the fallen branch, "I know that you are one of the cleverest, bravest women of my acquaintance, and I know that you will do anything you set your mind to, including getting yourself sent to Holloway, or committing arson. I know how you argue sometimes for the sake of it, purely to see how the argument will resolve… I know you such a good shot that pheasants from here to Dunmarleigh quake with fear at the start of the season, and I know that you still cry over Padgett. You are right to as well because he _was_ the best dog whoever lived…"

"He really was."

"…and I know you will do anything your papa will ask, except behave as you ought." He paused for a moment, didn't want to glance over in case he lost his nerve, "and I know that you are the only woman I have ever loved, the only woman I expect I will ever love… But as for you loving me back? I didn't know that, and I never expected it."

"Neither did I," her voice was barely a whisper as if she was a child again and secret sharing in the nursery during the dusky hours before sleep. "The thing is, Rupert, it can't be the same now."

"No, maybe not," he took placed his hand gently on her cheek, cupping her face, "because we have loved each other, and that is a rare and special thing."

"So," she said, feeling his breath on her cheek and his hand on her waist, "where do we go from here?"

"Jupiter," he said, kissing her for what felt like the very first time.


	20. 1808 - The Hon Miss Godwin

The carriage clattered over the cobbles, pulling up at the entrance to Pemberley with a whinny and a 'whoa'. Jemima took a deep breath and practiced her smile; she knew that she had to make an impression this week, had to ensure that Fitzwilliam Darcy, with his houses and his estates and his ten thousand a year, would ask her to be his wife. She was sure that it was imminent, he had already sought permission from her Uncle, and she had been suitably attired by her Aunt's modiste, who was already half enraptured at the thought of dressing the future Mrs Darcy of Derbyshire. Indeed, excepting the actual proposal, Jemima half believed herself to already be the mistress of Pemberley, and was determined to act as if the marriage license had already been acquired.

"Miss Godwin," Fitz said, not wanting to catch her eye as he held her gloved hand in his, helping her alight from the carriage.

"Mr Darcy," she smiled up at him.

"May I introduce to you my sister, Georgiana."

Jemima had never met the young Miss Darcy, but had already heard enough about her to know that she was a threat. The girl stood next to her brother, the assumption being, she presumed, that she was to be the hostess at Pemberley until she was suitably married off herself. Well, Jemima thought, don't believe that this will last for much longer. Once she was firmly ensconced within the Darcy family, she would whisper in Fitz's ear to have the girl sent to a boarding school in Manchester or Liverpool, maybe even London… because the further away the better. Georgiana was the same height as her, and was dressed in a most unassuming way, a plain green cotton dress with not even a hint of embroidery or embellishment. Jemima knew that her own printed muslins and satins would pay to any dowdy gowns that Miss Darcy might have in her closet, and wondered quickly why such a well-off young lady with such a grand inheritance would choose to dress like the daughter of a clergyman, it was most unbecoming to a lady of her rank. She curtseyed and smiled politely, but was pleased to note that Darcy took her own hand, and not that of his sisters as they walked under the arch and into the courtyard.

It was a warm, summer afternoon and Georgiana had planned for them all to take tea on the lawn, but this plan had changed upon a small murmur from Miss Godwin to Fitzwilliam, and now they were sitting in the saloon, the windows open, the air fresh, the gilt gleaming. Outside the gardens at Pemberley were beautiful and Georgiana knew that the gardeners had been working hard because the new borders were shimmering with colour, and her mother's Rose Garden was an explosion of scent and petals, Georgiana had hoped that Miss Godwin, in all of her London finery, would appreciate the simple joys of the outdoors, particularly here in Derbyshire. Her brother had been excited for the entire morning, walking around and checking that everything was in its place and Mrs Reynolds too had similarly been on tenterhooks at the prospect of Miss Godwin's arrival. Georgiana had liked the change in her brother, had enjoyed seeing some of his lightness return, Fitzwilliam could sometimes be lost in a cold winter, despondent gloom settling upon him, but recently he was blooming, the flowers bursting out all over his face.

"And what think of you Pemberley, Miss Godwin?"

It was important to Darcy that Jemima liked his home here. The house in London was fancy enough, with the ballroom and the grandeur, but Pemberley was the most important place to Darcy. It was where he always felt most at home, the place where he could be himself.

"It is very agreeable," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. It was too warm in here, she thought, too much fresh air. Jemima did not enjoy the gentility of the country, always found that people were far too interested in each other's business, and she did not care for the sun either, did not want her skin to take on a golden hue, which was not fashionable in London.

"How was your journey?" Georgiana asked, gesturing to Owens to offer bread and cheese.

"As pleasant as it can be when one is travelling so far out of London," she said.

If Miss Godwin was being entirely honest, she would have stated that the journey had been hideous, her Uncle's coach nowhere near as comfortable or as luxurious as the Darcy-crested barouche that Georgiana Darcy was used to taking her journeys in.

"How wonderful, I am so glad that you have come," she smiled. "My brother and I were eager for you to visit our home and see the delights of the Derbyshire countryside."

"I hope that you find them agreeable," Darcy said softly. "Miss Hurst and Miss Beatrice are already here, I suspect you will have the pleasure of their acquaintance soon, and Mr and Miss Bingley, are amongst those you consider friends, are they not."

"Very much so," she said, a hint of flirtation in her voice. "and it is through Mrs Hurst that we are so comfortably acquainted."

"It is," he smiled back.

Darcy felt his heart flutter inside his chest, he couldn't help but smile when he saw her, knew that he was already half in love with her.

"Mrs Hurst is one of my dearest friends," Georgiana said. "Why, she is almost a sister to me."

"That is a dear friendship, Miss Darcy," Jemima was annoyed at being interrupted.

"It really is," Georgiana noticed the annoyance, "and I always keep my friends close, Miss Godwin."

The lady smiled at her, but Georgiana did not feel any hint of amiability from her, rather a thinly veiled animosity. Oh, Jemima Godwin. It will do me well to keep a care about you, she thought, as she sipped her tea.

Louisa was travelling with Caroline and Charles, her husband had ridden on ahead the night before. He had told her he was eager as ever to see his daughters, but she knew it was rather to get started on the ample case of ruby red wines and luscious ports that he had already sent up to Pemberley a week before. Caroline was fractious, already annoyed at the thought of two weeks in Derbyshire, and eager to venture to Hertfordshire where she would be playing mistress at Netherfield. Charles had regaled both women with how beautiful the country estate was, and Darcy himself had agreed and stated that the house was superb.

Caroline sighed, "why are we bothering with Pemberley, when we could be travelling to Netherfield."

"Because Fitz is our dear friend, Caroline, and he invited us to his home," Louisa snapped, "besides which, Netherfield is neither ready for us, or us for it. You have to collect your gowns from Madame Fuchs yet and Charles said Michaelmas, indeed all of our plans revolve around that date as you are well aware."

Caroline harrumphed on her seat in the carriage, whilst Charles gently snored, his head resting against the window. "I know that, but it appears to me to be a waste of my labours…If everything is settled between Darcy and Miss Godwin, of course."

"You did not want to marry Fitzwilliam, excepting those first few weeks of flirtation pressed upon you by Mama, so please do not pretend now that he has been in your sights all along."

"He hasn't," she sighed, "but now it all seems so final."

Louisa wondered if it was, there was nothing in place so far and Fitz had barely written half a word to her on the subject, despite sending almost a letter a day.

"What is final?" He sputtered, still half asleep, jolted awake by a rock on the road.

"Jemima Godwin and Darcy," Louisa said. "I heard it was all settled."

Charles sat up, "oh, no. I mean, he wants to take her for his wife, and why would he not? Decidedly beautiful girl, isn't she? But, it all depends, doesn't it…"

"On what?" Caroline sat up straight.

"Yes," Louisa asked, "on what?"

Charles Bingley very rarely had the full attention of both of his sisters, and yet here they both were, captivated by his every word. Louisa was older, Caroline younger, but both were much cleverer than him in ways he would never fully understand. The Bingleys were new money, their fortune made in trade. Samuel Bingley had acquired vast sums which had been passed down to Charles as his only son and heir, but their sprawling business interests scattered across the north required more care and attention than he knew how to handle. If his sisters had been fortunate enough to have been born male, it would have been Louisa who would be taking on the brunt of the responsibility, with Charles perhaps in charge of one of the smaller concerns, Caroline maybe becoming an attorney, but as it was everything fell upon Bingley himself. It was one of the reasons why he had bonded so furiously with Darcy, who was in a similar situation, and despite being older the two had become fast friends.

"Well," he adjusted his posture in the carriage, "it all depends on whether or not Georgiana likes her too. Darcy is rather enamoured with Miss Godwin, but he is a businessman, he thinks long-term."

"I say, Charles," Caroline retorted, "that seems like a rather harsh way to view his romance."

"Maybe," he continued, "but Darcy is not going to marry someone who doesn't get along with his sister. It's very important to him, Georgiana is almost the only family he has."

"And does Miss Godwin know this?" Louisa was fairly sure that she did not.

"No," Charles said, slouching back down into the padded seat, "I don't think she would."

"Of course not," Caroline sniffed. "Why Jemima Godwin barely condescends to like her own family, she will think not a snifter of passing off Georgiana Darcy."

"Caroline!" Her sister admonished with a raise of her voice, "you are being unduly harsh."

"Unduly harsh indeed! I am being nothing of the kind."

"Why, sister," Charles laughed, "anyone would think you were determined to have Darcy for yourself."

"I would sooner marry Darcy, and have a less than tolerable life in Derbyshire, than see him shackled to Jemima Godwin. Her family are insufferable, and her horrendous uncle makes no attempts whatsoever to hide his machinations. He has a particular talent for social climbing, which you will note in the most recent marriages of his daughters."

"We are all social climbers, Caroline. Our family are no exception to that," Louisa said.

"Aye," Charles agreed, "that we are, Louisa. Indeed I think that we are only accepted at St James's because of our connections with the Darcys and by association, the Fitzwilliams, we would find ourselves on the outskirts were it not for their friendship."

"At least we are honest about it, brother," Caroline began her explanation, with a defiant ring to her voice. "I do not pretend to be something I am not, I cannot pretend to be enamoured with a gentleman if all I deign to think about is his fortune."

"Not even with that handsome young Scottish Earl, sister?" Louisa raised her eyebrow, she knew that Caroline, for all of her talk, desired to be elevated in rank, to be received in all of the best houses, and a marriage to someone of an even higher sphere than Fitzwilliam would guarantee that.

"Oh, she has got you there, Caroline," Charles laughed, "what about that gentleman who sought your own acquaintance? Scandalously rich, so I heard…"

Caroline's face softened and a soft pink hue crossed her cheek, "I was not interested in him because of what he could offer my purse, believe it or not."

"Were you in love with him?" Charles was curious, "because if you were then that would be a damned foolish thing to let slip through your fingers."

"And what if I were in love with him? The match is made with another, he will marry and fulfil his obligations, all of it forgotten."

"No worry, sister," Charles said, "Christopher Dalhousie is not the pinnacle for which you must reach. There will be other gentlemen with bigger fortunes."

"It was never about his fortune, Charles," Caroline's voice was quieter now, "I would not have married him for that, only for love."

"There are few of us who can allow ourselves to marry for love, sister," Louisa said quietly, "there is no folly in marrying for security… friendship."

"I know that," she said, "but I would only marry for friendship if I had exhausted all other possibilities, and I know that Fitzwilliam is the same."

"Do you not believe that Jemima Godwin is a good match for Darcy, then Caroline?" Bingley trusted the opinions of his sisters more than he would necessarily allow them to believe.

"I do not, Charles," said Caroline.

"And you, Louisa?"

Louisa felt partly to blame for this sequence of events, had pushed Jemima into the path of Darcy for a casual flirtation to alleviate his most recent of worries. She had not expected her dear friend to fall for Miss Godwin, had merely anticipated a lightening of his mood, a return to his usual geniality.

"Sister?" Charles pressed.

"I do not," she said reluctantly.

"Well," he leaned back in the coach, "these should prove to be an interesting few days, if Darcy is doing all he can to convince Miss Godwin to marry him, and you two are doing everything to convince him otherwise."

The coach passed under the archway, crossed over the bridge and continued on to Pemberley, Louisa followed the curve of the driveway as the house came into view on the horizon. These were going to be an interesting few days indeed, she thought.


	21. 1808 - Miss Wickham

Click-clack, Click-clack. Bridget was well aware of the sound of her shoes as she walked up the stairs from the kitchen, handing over the plate – filled with tiny ginger cakes and iced lace-patterned biscuits – to Ralph, who was waiting next to the hoist to lift the trays to the ante-room before Mr Staughton oversaw the parade of footmen who would carry them through to the splendour of the dining room, presenting them to Mr Darcy and his guests. She only knew the visitors by their trunks, currently stored in the gap underneath the stairs. Bingley. Hurst. Godwin, that was a new one, she thought. But she had seen the young lady before in glimpses of satin and curls, the older gentleman with his demands for seed cake, and the wane looking woman of middling years who seemed almost all gone. The murmurings in the servants hall had suggested that this Godwin woman was going to marry the master, but Bridget wasn't so sure. It wasn't fitting for the mistress of Pemberley to always keep her nose so high up in the air, she thought.

"Reckon we'll be done before midnight, Bridget?" Ralph said, loading the tray into the hoist.

"Maybe… I think we might be done before ten, if we're lucky," she said, with a nod, "Miss Bingley likes to retire early, and Mr Bingley will be bladdered before eleven."

"Aye, he can't handle his drink," he said with a laugh. "why old Staughton had to carry him to bed the last time he stayed."

"I remember…Poor Mr Bingley."

"Poor Bingley? Don't say that, Bridge…"

"I had a care for him that day, Ralph. He were proper ill."

"Who were proper ill?" Dotty chirped quickly as she carried a scuttle of coal past the two older servants.

"Mr Bingley," Bridget said.

"Oh, Mr Bingley," the younger girl sighed dreamily, "he's such a gentleman."

"When have you seen Mr Bingley?" Ralph enquired, knowing full well that the scullery maid should never have been seen upstairs.

"Only quickly," she said, "when he arrived, like, and he were wearin' that green waistcoat and his fancy hat, and I thought to myself that he looked like t'Prince Regent himself."

"When 'ave you ever seen the Prince Regent, Dotty? Get away, ya daft apeth!" Bridget laughed, as the younger girl began to scuttle away down the corridor, the bucket banging against her legs.

"What about you, Bridge, 'ave you a care for Mr Bingley?"

"Why would you think I have a care for Mr Bingley?" She was quite put out by this suggestion.

"You spent time in the house in town last season, di'n't yer? Learning wi' Mrs Boyle… you know t'Bingleys better than any of us 'ere."

"I were only in the kitchen, Ralph. I were never upstairs, you would be best asking Nancy or one of t'housemaids if you want to know personal things about Miss Bingley, which you shouldn't even be thinking about anyway!"

"I meant because of yer brother, Bridge, ya wet."

Bridget took umbrage at Peter's manner and folded her arms against him. None of the other servants mentioned the fact that she was the sister of George Wickham, not wanting to embarrass her, she presumed. It had been thought that he would become the steward of Pemberley, as his father had before him, but it had become clear early on that George was nothing like her dear papa. She didn't see much of him, kept away from his bad influence and his London ways in the sanctuary that was Paddock Cottage. Her mother Eleanor, who had once been a governess at nearby Chatsworth, educated her children in a manner perhaps thought excessive, but Bridget prided herself on being one of only a handful of servants who could read to any exacting standard, and she had a good hand too. She knew that if fate had been kinder, she too could have been teaching the bored daughters of the upper classes, but George had prevented that. Alas, he was her brother and her blood and regardless of what he had done wrong, she would do all she could to defend him.

"Don't talk about George, or I swear I'll 'ave our David come and gi' thee a clout."

"Eee, that isn't fair! David's as big as a bleedin' carthorse."

"I said don't talk about our George, Ralph," she warned. "Mrs Reynolds will go half mad if she hears ya, so it's for your own care. You know you cannot talk about him in this house."

He nodded quickly, Bridget Wickham was as fiery as they came, and she was clever too. Must be hard for her, he thought to himself, having her own kin so despised at Pemberley. He had only met Mr Wickham once, when him and the master had returned from Egypt, and he knew right then and there that there was definitely something funny about him. Ralph was a good judge of character, he knew he was.

"Is there any reason why you are both still harping on here, when Bridget has work to do?"

Mrs Reynolds had appeared from nowhere, her Derbyshire tones causing Ralph to jump and look busy, whilst Bridget blushed underneath her bonnet and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Bridget," she said, catching the girl halfway back down the stairs.

"Yes, Mrs Reynolds," Bridget curtseyed quickly.

"Have a mind with the male servants, your mama would not approve," she said softly, "and as your godmother, neither do I."

"I know, Aunt Frances," Bridget said in a similarly quiet tone.

Frances Reynolds softened. The last few years had been hard for Bridget, Eleanor too. After Robert had died, she had done all she could to support his widow and the three smaller children. George, the oldest by six years, was under the protection of his namesake, spirited away to school and the benefits of a private education. Peter and David Wickham were not as lucky, being too small to ingratiate themselves to the master of the house and his heir, and Bridget, despite being the same age as Georgiana Darcy, had been shunted into this lowly servants position in the bowels of the kitchen. All three of the children were still employed by the estate, and Eleanor lived off the annuity left by her husband, but it all seemed unfair to Frances, who knew that Bridget could have been as close a companion to the young Miss Darcy as her brother was to the master.

"Why don't you go up to bed now," she said, taking the tray, "you look fair jiggered."

"No," Bridget said, "it's alright. I have work to do."

Frances knew that her niece had the same work ethic as her own brother, Robert had been up with the lark and still working away long past bedtime. It was more than likely one of the reasons that he had passed away before his time.

"Bridget," she said firmly now, "go to bed."

The girl sighed, "I feel as if this is more than a hint of favouritism."

"If I cannot have a care for you, then who can I have a care for?"

"You are too kind."

"Perhaps," she said, "now, go."

Bridget smiled, did another quick curtsey and disappeared back into the corridor.

Fitzwilliam had dressed in his newest evening jacket, it was the one that made him look taller, his shoulders wider; he had also insisted his hair be trimmed before coming down for dinner this evening, which meant he was late into the library, managing to catch Georgiana who was also similarly late to entertain her guests.

"Will I do?" he said to her, a sudden bout of nerves dancing in his stomach. He wasn't even sure if he would be able to eat anything at all.

"Oh Fitz, you look particularly handsome this evening."

"Thank you for the compliment, although I will never believe you."

"Is all of this effort for Miss Godwin?"

"Not specifically, but maybe I have inadvertently dressed to impress her."

"You are a terrible liar, Fitzwilliam," she grinned. "Why, Miss Godwin is a fool if she does not adore you."

He hesitated for a brief second, "do you genuinely think so?"

"Of course," she said, her voice quiet under the grand stairs, "although we have to make sure that she is worthy of you."

Smiling tightly, he led her into the library, where their visitors were talking amongst themselves, Bingley chatting animatedly to Jemima and her companion, Mrs Winters, who was trilling with laughter, Louisa sit in the bay window, and Mr Hurst conversing with Mr Warner, whilst his very young second wife, Isabella, was being talked at by Miranda and Beatrice Hurst, and Caroline Bingley, all of whom were dressed similarly in matching dresses made from printed muslins.

Georgiana felt him take a breath, and she squeezed his hand; he looked down at her quickly and was instantly reassured by her presence even as she checked to make sure he was alright, a comforting glance, a nod, before venturing over to Bingley.

"Why, Miss Darcy, you are perfection personified," he said, taking her hand and kissing it, a relaxed bow to mirror her relaxed curtsey.

"Mr Bingley, please do not feel that you have to flirt with me, I am well aware of your charms," she said, noticing that the smile on Miss Godwin's face was beginning to sag, "and I do hope that you are looking forward to dining with us here tonight at Pemberley, Miss Godwin. I trust that your rooms are satisfactory?"

"Of course, satisfactory. My rooms are facing the North, I have noticed."

"Yes, Mrs Reynolds and I placed you in the Yellow Bedroom suite, it's one of the oldest rooms in Pemberley, and we reserve it for our special guests, why King James the Second even stayed in there once."

"Yes," she said, "and there is a portrait of his mistress right above the fireplace. Didn't one of your relatives also once hold that unenviable position?"

"I presume that you are referring to the Countess of Dortmund?"

"Was that the title bestowed upon her?"

"Yes," she nodded, "by the King." She noticed Jemima look over derisively at Mrs Winters, "Lady Sophia Darcy is one of the great mysteries of Pemberley, Miss Godwin. You see, to put it bluntly, she simply vanished. None of us know what became of her, but we do think it strange that a lady can disappear like that."

"Well, the room is perfectly adequate, of course, although my maid did struggle putting up my hair for dinner, which is why it looks such a frightful mess. Did your maid have a similar issue, Miss Darcy?"

If Georgiana was offended, Miss Godwin would not have known. Bingley looked over quickly at her, and then back at Jemima. She wanted to make it plain to her that she would not tolerate being disrespected at Pemberley, that she did not like this woman who had expected all the deference with none of the rank or manners to own it, and if Jemima doubted it for one minute, then Georgiana she knew she would have make it clear.

"Not at all, but then again, my rooms are in the family wing and face the South, which is why I would not have suffered as greatly as you. Any mishap with my own appearance is my own doing and, of course, my brother plays a large part in whatever decoration I am adorned with."

"Your brother helps you dress, Miss Darcy, is that your meaning? Why, how scandalous, rather like one of the characters in a novella, do you not think?"

"I think you have misunderstood," her voice acerbic, "My brother plays a large part in what I wear merely because he pays for it."

Bingley shuffled uncomfortably in his evening shoes, suddenly aware of the tightness of his cravat.

"I daresay my opinion counts for naught, but I must say, ladies, that you both look perfectly splendid, I would be happy to dance with either of you this evening," he bumbled, "perhaps even more than once… Danvers," he called to the gentleman and his wife, "come and join in our jolly conversation, I fear I am being overcome with womanly talk."

Georgiana was sure she caught Bingley breathing a little sigh of relief as Danvers joined them, an expression of relief crossing his face.

Fitzwilliam walked over to Louisa, a stiff bow, before relaxing and taking a seat next to her on the plush, newly reupholstered window seat, which overlooked the garden and the lake. The candlelight above them in the Turkish lantern flickered, a souvenir from the near east, an inspiration for the décor in this room, all golds and creams, and rich red fabrics.

"Fitzwilliam," she said widely, "I had quite wondered where you had gone!"

"I was momentarily delayed, but here now."

"And all the more grateful am I for it, for I have missed you greatly and have been eager to see you in person."

"And I you," he glanced quickly upwards, "and soon we all shall be spending the month together in Hertfordshire."

"You still wish to venture to Hertfordshire with us, Fitz?"

"Aye," he said, still not giving her a glance, "it looks to be a marvellous end to the year, does it not?"

"Perhaps…but," she began.

The Darcy butler entered the library and announced that dinner was to be served. Fitz grinned at her, before gesturing for them to begin the short walk to the dining room. Louisa knew that all chance of a continuation of this conversation would now be forgotten. She knew that she only had half of his attention, that out of the corner his eye he was watching Jemima, that his grey eyes, usually hard like slate were softer, molten almost. He was only paying her half attention, she could tell. Louisa had never seen Fitzwilliam like this before, but she didn't believe for one minute that he was in love with Jemima Godwin. She had seen Charles like this so many times, so had Fitzwilliam; all lovelorn and unable to see any kind of reason, it surprised Louisa that Fitz was unable to identify it in himself, unwilling perhaps to admit that he could also fall as fast and as foolishly as her brother.

"Maybe it shall be the first venture to the countryside for the future Mrs Darcy and I, what say you, Mrs Hurst?"

"Maybe," she said with a smile, as he took her hand.

The dining room had the smell of new paint and plaster, the gilt frames edging the portraits of long-gone relatives sparkling in the candlelight. The architect had been very clever in this room, which was a masterpiece of plasterwork, grained to look like wood panels; the ceiling a decadent floral confection manufactured from the best material, stark white and classic; and the room had been extended outwards so that they could enjoy the views of the garden, the windows were still open even at this late hour and the summer evening air was granting them all with refreshment in the hot room. There were over twenty of them in attendance, a few local families had been invited too, as well as the houseguests already present.

Louisa found herself sitting next to Edward Warner on one side, whose conversation was less than lacking, and Georgiana on the other, who was sparkling with conversation, even amongst more dominating personalities, such as that of her own sister. Caroline was similarly effervescent this evening, flirting with Hugo Danvers who was looking decidedly dashing this evening. He was a handsome young gentleman and it pleased her to see her sister laughing again, she had been melancholy ever since word had reached the house on Grosvenor Street that Christopher Dalhousie was returning to Edinburgh with a new bride, but tonight she was her usual self. Darcy was sitting at the head of the table, with Miranda to his left, Charles was about halfway down with Jemima in the centre. Louisa studied the girl carefully – she had known her for a while now, becoming gradual acquaintances in the houses of Belgravia, introductions to the high-born, who received Jemima through her family connections, but who only allowed Louisa entrance because of her wealth and recent marriage. She was no stranger to the snobbery of London society, had experienced it herself more than once, a sign even in these modern times that prejudice was still prevalent, even with an inheritance of twenty thousand pounds.

"How was the journey, Louisa?" Georgiana asked with an excited look on her face, "I am so happy that you are come, I have so many things planned for us. Fitz has even bought two new ponies for the phaeton."

"The journey was long, but everything I find can be solved with a rush around the estate with two new ponies," Louisa said biting into a ginger cake.

"And you know of Miss Godwin, of course," she said with a terse smile.

"Yes." Louisa paused, saw the hardness running through her veins, "and what is your opinion of Miss Godwin?"

Georgiana did not say anything but looked at Louisa with her eyes wide and knowing, and took a drink of her wine, "she is tolerable, I suppose, but I haven't seen much in her yet that recommends her to me."

"Oh, but she is handsome woman, is she not?"

"She is beautiful, Louisa, I am not denying the lady her beauty," Georgiana was still smiling, but Louisa knew it was for show, a hardened laugh at the edges of her sentences.

"Oh," she paused, wanting to question further, to ask what had happened between the Godwins arriving at Pemberley and now, but it was not to be.

"Dancing, I think," Fitzwilliam said, rising to his feet, "what say you Miss Godwin, would you care to dance?"

Jemima smiled and clapped, "oh, that sounds positively wonderful. Although, I will only dance if dearest Charles is my partner for the first two."

Louisa caught the look of disappointment on his face, but he recovered admirably.

"I did not think we would be dancing this evening, Mr Darcy," chirped Miranda, who

"Well, quite," he said, gesturing for them all to stand. "Shall we?"

It was noticed by everyone that he offered his hand to Miss Godwin a little sooner than was appropriate in company, and even Georgiana was slightly vexed at this knowing that she ought to have taken precedence. Caroline gave Louisa a pointed stare, acknowledging that the lady was making their friend forget himself indeed. Jemima took his hand, leading the way through the tall, wooden door with a smug look upon her face, her uncle and aunt following after, with Georgiana taking the hand of Charles, who kindly led her through the stag parlour and into the more intimate setting of the drawing room.

"Georgiana," Jemima said, in a tone that the lady did not appreciate, "I have heard that you are the most proficient on the pianoforte, so you can play while we dance."

"Well," she said, "I am quite proficient at dancing too, so maybe someone else would care to play. I have heard that you are a rather capable musician."

"Indeed, I am," she said back, her tone more glacial with each passing second, "but I have already promised Mr Bingley the first two dances, so I am unable to oblige." She turned her back quickly and announced to the gathering that they would be dancing the Scotch Reel, and the group began to gather into couples and line themselves up for the dance, a kerfuffle of noise and a rustle of gowns and evening shoes on polished wooden floors.

"Georgie," Fitz asked quickly, "please play for us, you know how I love to hear you play."

She looked up at him underneath her ringlets, "alright, but please be aware that it is only for you that I am obliging the fancy of Miss Godwin."

"I know, sister," he smiled, "but she is nervous, please be kind."

"I am always kind, Fitzwilliam," she said, taking a seat over at the pianoforte, looking for the music, "but please do not close your eyes to the lady's imperfections. I can see how you admire her, but we all have our flaws."

"Do you disapprove, G?"

She did. She disapproved of Jemima Godwin most wholeheartedly, but she didn't feel as if this was something she could tell her brother quite yet, and especially not in company.

"I think that you need to make sure."

"I am sure, I have never been surer."

"Alright, then."

He smiled at her quickly before disappearing to dance with Miranda, who was giddy as they hopped and jumped around to the jaunty tune. Georgiana kept half an eye on the music and half an eye on Miss Godwin.

The guests began to depart sometime after midnight according to the chimes of the clock that echoed across the estate, Bridget watched from the room in the top of the house that she shared with three other kitchen maids, who were still downstairs working away. They would be in their beds within the hour, up again by six to start preparing the trays and the food, the scullery maids chasing around the house lighting fires and emptying chamberpots. It was a cool night, in contrast to the warm afternoon, and Bridget could see the sharp crescent of the moon bright in the inky sky. She slipped on her shoes, pulling on her jacket, fastening her bonnet around her hair, which was unpinned and loose around her shoulders. The door was still unlocked, meaning that Mrs Reynolds was still downstairs, ensuring that everything was ready for the morning, she slipped down the backstairs that curled around the older parts of the house, the mullion windows still visible behind the palladian façade. The oak door that led onto the courtyard creaked as she opened it, outside on the driveway the lanterns were still burning and a group of lads from the stable were tending to the remaining coach, sharing banter with the Danvers coachman. Under the arch and into the garden, the blackness of the estate glistened in the moonlight, the edges of the trees looking like they had been coated in icing sugar. Bridget always felt at home in the garden, her mother called her a wild thing, as she was often found with her brothers in the forest, or climbing the tallest trees. She had been walking this path for nearly all of her life, the soil under her feet firm as always.

"Who goes there?"

The voice made her jump, and she pulled herself back from the worn path in the grass, wanting to hide, her heart suddenly beating fast in her chest. Could it be a poacher? A thief?

"I said, who goes there?"

Emerging from the border of trees came a young woman dressed in white, her face half hidden by the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight, but Bridget knew she recognised the voice now, could half glance the girl. Miss Darcy.

"I do apologise, Miss, if I startled you."

"And who are you?" Her voice was sharper than she expected it to be.

"Bridget, Miss," she said, by way of explanation. "I work at the house."

Georgiana seemed to drop her guard a little, "and what do you do at Pemberley, Bridget?"

"In the kitchens, with Mr Artaud. I…I… I make cakes?" Bridget didn't really suffer from nerves, but standing face to face with Georgiana Darcy made her very nervous indeed.

"Alright, and why are you wandering about the grounds at this hour of night."

"Not to speak out of turn, Miss," Bridget said tentatively, "but I could ask the same of you."

Georgiana went to say something, but stopped, instead she said, "you're very right, and I'll tell you. I just really needed to have a think about something that is vexing me greatly indeed, and the house was so stuffy this evening, so many people."

"It's always best to get out into the fresh air if something is bothering you. My father always told me that it blew away cobwebs."

"My Papa always said the same thing."

They continued onwards, their gowns catching on the grass as they walked the well worn path.

"Do you not like having houseguests, Miss Darcy?"

The two began to walk to the top of the hill, towards the Lantern, which stood proudly as a landmark in the woods, from there they could see the house below, the lights still burning softly in the windows.

"I do like having houseguests, but I prefer it when it is just my brother and I at home."

"It makes it easier for us, no doubt, but there is something magical about Pemberley when it is full of people."

Georgiana was looking at the girl, there was something familiar about her, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, "yes, there is, and of course I do enjoy it when there are delightful biscuits and desserts for us to enjoy."

"I make a lot of those biscuits, you know."

"I didn't, but thank you for doing so. You are all so wonderful at looking after us."

"My family have been looking after your family for generations now, it's what we do."

"Our roots intertwined, you could say," Georgiana smiled as they took a seat on the stone floor of the Lantern.

"Exactly," she said. "Both of my brothers work at Pemberley too."

"And do you have any sisters?"

"No, Miss."

"Me neither," she sighed, "well, you know that, of course… I always thought how much fun it would be to have a sister."

"Me too," Bridget looked around, the woods were getting much darker now, the beacons at the front of house, usually still bright from this far away were starting to dim. "We should probably start back now, I don't think either of us will do well if anybody knew we were outside. Pemberley Woods can be unsafe, even for those like us who know them well."

"That is an excellent point," she said, as they both stood and brushed the gravel from their gowns. She noticed the embroidered trim on the edging of Bridget's gown, "did you do this by your own hand?" Her fingers against the fabric, "it is very beautiful. Maybe Mrs Reynolds would spare you sometime so you could teach me."

"That would be grand, Miss Darcy."

They began the walk down the hill in companionable silence, occasionally glancing over at each other and smiling as if they were about to begin something wonderful. Georgiana wondered why they had never met before, she had known most of the younger maids, had even been trying to teach the little scullery maid a few letters when she could. The lantern under the archway was still alight, and both girls knew that they would be going different ways.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Bridget."

"You too, Miss," she stumbled, "even though we know each other by way of passing."

"We do," she turned to cross the courtyard, "Bridget?"

"Aye, Miss?"

"You said your family had been in the service of mine for generations… I would like to tell my brother about you, what is your family name?"

"Wickham, Miss."

Georgiana felt her heart drop to her feet, "oh. Oh. Well, goodnight, Miss Wickham."

Bridget saw it, whatever it was, "goodnight, Miss."

She watched as Georgiana crossed across to the door in the opposite corner, would be climbing the stairs to her bedroom on the South front, directly under her own if she thought about it, but reached in a completely different way. Bridget crossed to the archway, deciding it would be less problematic to take the back staircase up to her own room, but something caught her ear. She could hear the sound of rider – faster now, pacing, racing – before reaching the gravel of the gated driveway, the man racing past her into the courtyard, before turning and marching up to her with an agitated look on his face, the smell of travel and sweat pouring off him.

"You! Girl! Do you work here?!"

She nodded quickly, as he thrust a letter into her hand.

"Take this and deliver it as quickly as you can," he demanding, turning on his boot heel as he did.

"But I do not have a coin for you, sir."

"No need, miss," he said over his shoulder, walking back towards his horse as she followed, "it has already been paid."

Bridget stood there, watching him disappear as quickly as he had arrived. She looked down at the letter, a wedge of papers with a heavy wax seal, addressed to 'Miss Jemima Godwin', she thought it said, as she squinted at it in the dim light. It was well known that Miss Godwin was the young lady who it was believed Mr Darcy would marry… she carried the letter back across to the courtyard to hand to Mr Staughton, for it was that gentleman's responsibility to deliver it to her. She looked down at her precious letter again, the moonlight brighter now as the cloud cleared, and she knew that this letter could never reach Jemima Godwin. The firm, steady copperplate hand was one that she recognised all too well; the curve of the J, the roll of the G. This letter had been written by her brother George, and Bridget decided there and then that whatever he was plotting, whatever mischief he had planned, she was going to stop him.


	22. 1914 - War

The corridors of Pemberley were quiet. No housemaids rushing around, no footmen busy lighting fires. The mood was sombre, silent as if the whole estate were holding its breath. Edward stood looking out at the lake in front of the house, the early morning mist still settling from the hills behind. It had been in the lake where his older brother had drowned in the midst of summer, laughing and joking on a raft they had built, standing balanced on the wooden planks, Peter had cheered from the centre of the lake, waving at Edward who was standing at the water's edge. He fell quickly, landing with a large splash, Edward laughing and watching for him to re-emerge with a gasp, but it took longer than he thought it would, and then too long. By the time they had all realised what had happened, it was too late. The sun was beginning to glint off the surface of the lake now, but all Edward could see when he looked at it were the cold, blank eyes of his brother staring into the distance. It sent a shiver down his spine, the same shiver that he felt the day before when the Prime Minister announced that the country was now at war with Germany.  
Edward didn't have a taste for war. He had done his duty, of course, performed a basic office job during the fracas with the Boers, but his mother had written letters to his Uncle Wyndham in the War Office and there was never any chance that he would serve on the frontline. He was glad of it. He saw the eagerness of the faces of his sons the evening before, Bertie standing up as if he were already in uniform, ready to be shipped off to wherever his King needed him, Gig a little more reticent, knowing that he would be needed at Pemberley to manage things. Cecily, not usually hysterical, sobbing small quiet tears into her handkerchief and hoping that the dull glow of the electric lamps would hide her worry from the guests, even his mother Clementine retired early. It was only in his daughter that he caught recognition, and he watched as she slipped out of the room.  
Millicent sat on the wall overlooking the tennis courts, legs dangling over the edge, the hint of cigarette smoke on the air. She pulled a long drag. Edward sat down beside her, similarly downcast as he looked out over the courtyard, the darkness of the countryside.  
"Do you have a spare, Pen?"  
She pushed the silver cigarette case along the rough-edged wall with a firm finger, a gentle push of the button, and it sprang open with a satisfying looseness. He remembered it well. The monogrammed case, a gift from his mother, had been taken with him to South Africa, carried it in his pocket as he had walked along the fences of the camps in Cape Town. It was the faces of the children he thought of. As he had walked past with Lord Kitchener there was a little blonde girl with the sad eyes who had reminded him too much of his young daughter at home. He didn't want to think of what might have happened to the child, but typhoid had run rife through the camp that summer, and he had never seen her again. Edward Darcy had always found Kitchener to be a cruel man, driven by ambition and a hardened determination to always be the victor, whatever the human cost.  
"Now, don't waste it. I probably won't be getting any more French cigarettes for a while, Papa. I might have to give it up altogether."  
"Stop smoking?" He said, as she leaned over and lit it for him, he inhaled with a sharp breath and a splutter, "surely you shouldn't deprive yourself of one of your only pleasures."  
"Quite right," Millicent glanced over at her father, he was putting a brave face on, but she knew that he was terrified of what was to come. "It will all be alright, you know."  
Edward sighed, "oh, I know. It will be horrendous for a few years, and we will suffer for a while, but everything will get back to normal. I doubt there will be many casualties, just a massive show of force by us before the Germans surrender."  
"You think that it's all just political? That there will be no real fighting, but a lot of posturing and dramatics?"  
"You know what the aristocracy are like, anything for a performance," he wasn't sure if he believed what he was saying, he knew war could be a frightful thing, "your mother is a brilliant example, I believe."  
They both knew that he didn't believe it. Millicent stubbed out her cigarette on the wall, flicking the butt down into the shrubbery surrounding the tennis court.  
"Mr Wetherby will have your guts for garters if he sees you doing that."  
"Maybe," she smiled, "although, with four sons, I imagine his concerns may be elsewhere. There will be no aristocratic exemptions for them."  
"Quite."  
"What about Bertie?"  
"What about him?" Edward knew what she meant, "you know he will go whether we like it or not."  
"And can we not do anything? Can we not speak to Uncle Delancey? I'm sure his sway with Lord Kitchener will manage to keep Bertie from the front as long as possible."  
"Uncle Delancey will be doing all he can to keep Kit from the front," he said, "he only has one son, I have two, and regardless of what I think about the military posturing, there is a lot to be said for the importance of one's heir."  
"Gig won't go."  
"No," he nodded, "he will be far more suited in an office in London than in a field in France."  
"It won't come to that though, will it?"  
"No."  
Edward was lying, and Millicent knew it. Her heart had dropped the night before, she swore that she had felt it audibly clunk into her velvet evening pumps. A heavy weight that she had dragged around for hours now, pulling at her as she had trailed her fingers up the oak staircase bannisters, lay on top of her in the bedroom at the corner of the north front, put its hand around her neck and squeezed slowly until the tears had choked her in the middle of the night. This was why she was here now with her father, watching the summer sun slowly rising over the hills of Derbyshire.  
"And there's Uncle Fitzwilliam, of course," Edward said solemnly, "all those sons."  
He had said it on purpose, wanted to see if there was a reaction from her, but she stayed stoically looking out onto the parkland. Edward Darcy knew that Millicent's visits to the Darcy mansion on Grosvenor Street were nothing to do with her attendance at charity lunches, and everything to do with Rupert Fitzwilliam, the boy had shuffled and stuttered around Pemberley during the last shoot.  
"There are a lot of families with a lot of sons, Papa. We cannot expect to be exempt because of the privilege of our rank."  
"No," he said, 'but you know I will pull every string I can to keep your brothers safe. I have to."  
"I know, Papa, and everything will be alright."  
She tucked herself under his arm, as she used to do when she was younger, inhaling the familiar smell of him. The one that made her feel as if she were five years old again. Edward Darcy wrapped his arm around his daughter and exhaled, he didn't have the same level of confidence that everything would be alright. In fact, he didn't think they were going to be alright at all.  
"I'm going to Waddingham on Friday, to see Uncle Fitzwilliam. Would you like to accompany me? Your mother is off to town with Granny, and I'm far too old now to travel stag…it's all been a bit dull there since Mabel died, Richard has lost his vim somewhat."  
"Waddingham is too dull for words… why would I want to spend the weekend at Waddingham? You know full well that I have no taste for Yorkshire."  
"Oh, I don't know," he said dismissively, "maybe there will be someone there to entertain you."  
Looking up quickly, Millicent noticed the look on her father's face. She wondered if he knew. The hairs on her arm prickled, and she looked straight ahead, focusing on the distance. Millicent could never hide anything from her father as a general rule but matters of the heart were something different. Something only whispered about with Kitty in the quiet hours of the night, for lectured about by Aunt Agatha, or gently chastised by her mother, who wanted an excuse for a society wedding. There would be no weddings now though, she thought, not for as long as this lasted.  
"Maybe," she sighed, "but you know not one of the Fitzwilliam boys are half useful for anything apart from gambling away their inheritance and playing polo. What good would any of them be on a battlefield?"  
"I'm sure we'll soon find out," Edward said, "Matlock told me that all of his boys are signing up."  
"Even Rupert? But he can barely hold a shotgun."  
"Easier to shoot a German running towards you with a pistol than aim at a pheasant with a forty-year-old shotgun, I shouldn't wonder," he got to his feet, kissing her gently on the head, "you should come to Waddingham. Aunt Catriona always likes to see you, and it will do you good. Right, I'm off back to bed… best try and get an hour or so before your mother wakes up."  
"Good idea," she smiled softly.  
He turned and began the short journey inside, his slippers crunching against the gravel of the garden path. Millicent watched until he was safely inside, the soft click of the door into the Stag Parlour, and then she hid her face in the soft cotton of her dressing gown, and let the tears flow.


	23. 1808 - Stanlake

Bridget Wickham had only ever known life on the Pemberley estate or riding with her father to the big house in London, the stucco-fronted terrace with its pale whiteness she had tried to achieve much later icing paper-thin biscuits in the sweaty kitchen, and the glossy black door with its brass lion-headed knocker, the metallic eyes looking out onto the hustle and bustle of the London street. She remembered the black and white marble floor, and the gilt-edged portraits of the Darcys that had come before, even the oil-painted face of the wigged and powdered George in his armour who peered down at her with a haughty questioning face as if he couldn't quite believe that she dared to look at him. He had always scared her a little, but Bridget knew from her father that the Wickhams had been in service to the Darcys for longer than any of them could remember, that it had been Henry Wickham who had been on the battlefield with Piers D'Arcy, back when knights were brave and bold and the future of England itself was at peril.

After her father's death, she returned to the house on Grosvenor Street, but this time she was not welcomed through the heavy wooden door, instead, Bridget was shunted and shifted into the kitchens, glanced with a heavy hand by Mrs Boyle, and directed to where she would be working. Occasionally she would glimpse the silk dresses owned by Miss Darcy being altered by one of the dark-haired girls, who would chatter in foreign tones to each other; sometimes she would help repair the heavy overcoats of the master, which would smell of tobacco and the City, or edge his handkerchiefs and cravats with tiny, rhythmic stitches threaded with pale blue cotton. It was a duty of service to her own family to continue to serve the Darcys in this way, something that she could never abandon, something she never thought she would want to.

The paper was smooth, roughly edged on one side. The seal pressed into dark red wax, which oozed over the edges like a wound. It felt heavy before, but heavier now she had snapped the wax, knowing that there was no going back.

"Everything alright, Bridget?"

Adam Artaud always looked different when he wasn't in the kitchen. He had a surly looking countenance, and a rasp to his voice that she liked; his expressions were always animated, and she took great pleasure from watching him craft sculptures from sugar and create magnificent showpieces for the Darcy dining table. It was the passion that made him so attractive to her, even though she knew that Adam Artaud with his green eyes and his fake French accent would never even look in her direction. At least, not seriously.

"Aye," she said, tucking the letter in between the folds of her dress.

Adam walked past the servants' table and into the stores, there was a small clatter, and he returned with two small tumblers and a hunk of bread.

"Now," he said conspiratorially as he sat across from her, "we are not telling Mrs Reynolds about this."

He handed her the tumbler and she took a quick mouthful. It was syrupy, thick… she grimaced.

"Is this Mr Staughton's port?"

"Of course," he smiled, his eyes twinkling mischievously in the dim candlelight of the kitchen. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

He took a bite of his bread, studying her as he swallowed it, "there is no need to lie to me, Bridge, you know all my secrets."

"I think everyone knows that you're not French."

"Well maybe, but you figured it out first," he took a mouthful of the port.

Bridget watched him carefully, picking at her own piece of bread. She wondered what Aunt Frances would say about her sitting here after bedtime, dressed in her nightgown, and in the company of a man.

"Adam?"

"Aye."

"What know you of town?"

"In what respect?"

"Of society… of things that…go on."

"You mean like with gossip, and scandal…" he looked amused, "and things like that?"

"Yes, exactly that."

Adam stopped for a moment, gulped down his bread, washing it down with more port. He wasn't sure where this was leading.

"Well, I know of some things… My sister, Isabella… she's a ladies maid for the Devonshires, she tells me what she knows."

Adam already knew about Bridget's eldest brother, knew that he was no longer welcome at Pemberley, knew that he was a charmer, a rapscallion, a gentleman only in the broadest sense of the term. He watched as Bridget pulled out the letter and placed it on the table, she looked angry, she looked terrified. It was a dangerous combination.

"What's that?"

"It's a letter from my brother to Miss Godwin."

Adam looked confused, his eyebrows knitting together as he handled the letter, squinting at the hand.

"And what does it say?"

"It confirms to me that my brother is still very much the worse kind of man."

"How do you mean?"

Bridget unfolded the letter carefully, the words written by George barely legible in the light. Adam reached over and lit another candle, placing it on the table next to her.

"My dearest Jemima, I hope this letter finds you in good health. For great reasons known only to us both, I must urge you to press forward with your arrangements vis D_. P_y will be preparing for a new mistress by the time my words reach you, but rest assured that all is well with _ at St James'. I have it on good authority that P_ is most eager for you to legitimise your union at the earliest opportunity for the sake of appearances, and will, once the wedding bells are rung, honour the venerable cuckold with a title for services rendered- "

"I don't understand…"

Adam looked confused, taking the letter from her hands and skimming quickly through the pages.

"Can you see it? Can you see what they are planning to do?"

"Should it make more sense to me?"

Bridget snatched for the letter, getting up from the table and turning her back on Adam, who was now even more confused than before.

"It probably should make more sense to you, aye!"

* * *

Sleep took a long time to arrive for Georgiana, and she awoke the next morning later than usual, late for breakfast and too late to make herself suitably presentable for the outing to Buxton that her brother had planned. She had already dismissed Betsy with an imperious wave of the arm, which she would remember to apologise for later, and requested a plate from Mrs Reynolds with which to break her fast. The room was chilly, not catching the sun until later when she would already have been dressed and expected downstairs, but it still felt luxurious to lie here under the heavy cotton sheets for a quiet moment, with no need to entertain anyone by herself, or any thoughts but her own.

"Excuse me, Miss Darcy."

Georgiana blinked, standing at the end of the bed was the girl from the night before.

"Bridget?"

"Yes, Miss," she curtseyed awkwardly. "I need to speak to you urgently."

"You should wait for Mrs Reynolds to bring you up. This isn't what-"

"This couldn't wait for that," she flung the letter, now crumpled from being in her pocket and reread for half of the night, onto the bed, "you need to read this."

Georgiana reached for the letter, unfolding it slowly, smoothing it onto the sheets. Bridget watched as she read the letter, her expression contorting into anger.

"Where is this from?! Where did you get it?!"

"Last night, it was delivered by the last post."

"Liar! Georgiana flashed, "you bring this to me to discredit my brother's beloved, written no doubt by your brother… your lying, deceitful, wretch of a brother! Get out!" Georgiana was furious, her face flushed pink with rage, "GET OUT!"

Bridget flinched, reached for the letter, "I don't think so, Miss Wickham! Please leave."

She stepped softly out of the room, her heart beating in her like one of the drums played by the regiment. How could she have been so foolish? Of course, Miss Darcy would not believe her, but if not Georgiana, then who?

Georgiana could feel the rage and the anger pulsating through her, just the sight of Wickham's writing on the page made her feel sick. She read the words again, wanting to see the extent of the deception that the Wickham girl was placing before her… but didn't Lady Armitage say that Miss Godwin couldn't be trusted? Weren't the Hurst girls reticent about her affections towards Fitz…? Georgiana studied the letter again, the copperplate hand so rigid and stiff, so like that of Fitz himself. There was an implication here, a very serious one. She rang the bell for Betsy, before anything else she would be visiting Stanlake, and she would be going straight away.

It took forty minutes to reach Stanlake, one of three country homes of Lord and Lady Armitage, and the least impressive. Felton Armitage, the Earl of Struthers, came from a long line of nobles who could trace their lineage back to William the Conqueror, and the small estate had been awarded to them by that venerable King after success in a decisive battle. Most recently, however, the Armitages had found that their outgoings severely surpassed the incomes from their lands and business interests, and so the former grandeur of Stanlake was somewhat faded compared to their London townhouse, which was where the majority of their entertainments took place. The house had been built at the same time as Pemberley, but whereas the Darcys had continually refurbished and renovated their home, Stanlake was still very much a Tudor manor house, with black and white woodwork and deep mullion windows, glinting with stained glass, covered by ivy that grew wild and romantic over the structure. Georgiana had never felt more certain of herself when she had boarded the carriage, but now as it clattered up the driveway, the house in the distance, the more she was unsure. The letter was in her bag, heavy like a stone and she wasn't even certain of what she was asking, but she had remembered Lady Armitage's warning, and now, here was real solid proof of some misdeed. She hadn't realised when she stepped into the carriage which one it was. It had been repainted, the inside reupholstered, but she knew this was where she had been that night… and now here she was again alone. The miles seemed to turn into hours, and she gulped at the fresh air, but her resolve was stronger than George Wickham's hold over her. Damn that man, and damn his sister too.

* * *

Charlotte Armitage had not expected a call from Georgiana Darcy, particularly arriving without invitation and without a companion. It was almost unheard of. She waved away the butler, and prepared to meet the girl in the drawing room, a heavily panelled room with a Jacobean ceiling, apparently once visited by Mary Stewart on her way to the executioner's block. She didn't pay attention to the myths and legends passed down into family legend via the servants' hall, if half of what was laid down in Armitage Lore was true then Stanlake was surely the centre of English history for the last four centuries.

"Miss Darcy of Pemberley, Madam," said the Butler, quite unaccustomed to young ladies arriving unaccompanied.

Georgiana curtseyed awkwardly, she looked tense, a furrow in her brow and her usual expression taut. Charlotte knew that something was wrong.

"Georgiana," she said kindly, "come and take a seat. Milton, please send up some refreshments." She edged over to the side of the settee, "Lord Armitage had some tea imported from India, such a treat to have it in one's own house."

The younger lady shifted on the seat, clutching at her reticule. Inside it, the letter, as heavy as a cannonball.

"I apologise for calling on you so unexpectedly, Lady Armitage."

"No need for apologies, are you quite alright? I must say that I haven't had a chance to speak to Lord Armitage about the ball we planned, but I dare say Ernest will start the preparations once he returns from London."

"Ernest has gone to London?"

"Aye, he tells me there is some urgent business there, but I rather believe that finds the society in Derbyshire rather dull."

"And Henry?" Georgiana said tentatively, "is he away in town too?"

Charlotte hid a smile, she had noticed the way Georgiana had looked at her second son the week before, had listened to Henry casually mention the Darcy girl in conversation whenever he could. A match between them would be advantageous for both families, of course, but she didn't think that Georgiana Darcy had travelled the distance from Pemberley on the rough road for that reason.

"He isn't, he's on the estate dealing with a tenant dispute," she gestured to Milton, who had returned with a tea tray, "but if you care to join us for nuncheon, he will be back for then."

"Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement-"

"Ah yes, you have visitors at the house, of course."

Georgiana nodded as Milton passed her a cup of the hot liquid in a delicate cup, decorated with tiny seashells around the rim, glanced with gilt. The tea was bitter, stewed for too long by an inexpert hand, and it made her wince though she tried to hide it.

"Lady Charlotte, I need to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"You said that Fitzwilliam could not marry Jemima Godwin."

"I did."

"What was the reason?" Georgiana saw her momentarily hesitate, "I need you to be very honest with mre. This is important."

Charlotte sipped her tea, before placing the cup into the saucer with a delicate clink, she glanced up, "there is nothing really to be told."

Georgiana removed the letter, spread it out on the table, "this is the hand of George Wickham. Why is he writing to Miss Godwin at Pemberley? What is the reason?"

Charlotte reached for the thin sheets, reading the contents quickly, "why you are as perplexed as I am as to why the son of your father's steward is writing to a guest of your brother."

"His sister works in the kitchen, she says she received the letter by rider late last night."

"And you don't believe her? The fact that you are here signals to me that you are perhaps unsure as to her motives."

Georgiana knew this to be true, there was nothing about Bridget Wickham, excepting her family name, that made her think she was dishonest.

"The Wickhams have always been loyal servants of the Darcys," Charlotte said, "your mother was very close to Eleanor Wickham, she was with her when she passed."

"Eleanor?"

"George's mother… and Bridget's too."

"She was there when I was born?"

"She was… and when your mother died. Eleanor acted as your wet nurse, there is but three months between you and Bridget."

"Oh," Georgiana said softly, "I was not aware of that."

"And why would you be aware of that? It is not something you would be informed about."

"I suppose not," she began to think about Bridget and the expression on her face this morning when she scolded her and sent her away. This was brought to her in great confidence, and she had broken those tiny promises of friendship at the first challenge.

"Indeed."

"But what about Miss Godwin? You warned me about her and, after meeting her, I am not as enamoured with her as I ought to be."

"You have good reason to be reserved in your affection. Miss Godwin comes from a well-born, noble family who reside in Yorkshire, not far from the birthplace of your mother."

"Really?"

"Yes, the seat of the Godwin family is Selwyn Court, not ten miles from Waddingham. Her father was a Baronet, had the ear of the King, and the vices of the Duchess of Devonshire."

"Her father was a gambler?"

"Aye, he died penniless. The family retained the house, of course, but with nothing to maintain it, they were forced to retrench. Poor Lady Godwin rented out the house, and the daughters were dispersed to relatives until they were able to make their own matches, the son inherited the baronetcy, of course, but no money with it. No home, and now no mother. Lady Godwin died a few years ago."

"So, Miss Godwin has to marry well then? There is no shame in that."

"Of course not, we are fools if we do not strive for a marriage that is advantageous in all ways, but Miss Godwin had her sights set higher than a good marriage. There is something very ambitious about her."

Georgiana did not need Lady Armitage to advise her on this aspect of Jemima Godwin's personality.

"I have glimpsed this myself, and I must admit that it is not something I find appealing."

"Now, you misunderstand me, Georgiana. There is nothing wrong with ambition in a woman, in fact, we must always keep one step ahead of our menfolk, but Miss Godwin's ambition stretches further than I have seen."

"What is your meaning?"

Charlotte inhaled deeply, "Jemima Godwin is a special companion of the Prince Regent – they get along marvellously, and she is known to frequent St James's with alarming regularity for a lady of no fortune and mediocre birth."

"But she loves Fitzwilliam, doesn't she?"

Georgiana didn't care if Jemima Godwin was a friend of the Prince, didn't care if she was unpleasant, because if she loved Fitzwilliam, and he loved her, then everything would be alright.

Charlotte shook her head, "she needs to marry someone, and whilst she might have some regard for your brother, the marriage is purely to provide a respectable cover."

"A respectable cover?!"

"Yes."

She was thinking it over in her head because she knew that Fitz could not bear to marry someone who did not love him, who did not respect the sanctity of marriage. This could never…he would never…

"I need to speak to my brother, I need to make him aware of her deceit."

"Georgiana, you cannot present this information to Darcy like this. He would never believe you."

"Maybe not me, but he would believe her."

"And you think you can convince her to reveal her true intentions?"

"I have to try."

She reached for the letter and left as quickly as she had arrived, a whirlwind in muslin. Charlotte Armitage finished her tea, as she watched the carriage disappear down the drive. Georgiana Darcy was definitely her mother's daughter.


End file.
